Humble Cake

Although some of my friends act like I am some kind of recipe savant, I have more than my share of disasters in the kitchen. They can't be avoided. I learned this inevitability at a young age from my mother. Mom has always been my earliest inspiration for loving to cook (I should really devote a post to her influence), but she was also known to throw an imperfect cake across the kitchen, or chuck an entire casserole into the trash can, peppering the scene with choice expletives.

My sister and I have learned to steer clear when the gravy isn't thickening or when the pie crust breaks. This week I am visiting my sister in Utah, and I had an acute culinary disaster, reminiscent of mom's, but I am proud to say my sister and I kept our humor, somehow.

I'm embarrassed to reveal that what I was cooking was a Barbie cake: you know, the big skirt of a yellow cake cooked in a bowl, Barbie doll inserted, and all frosted to look like a dress.

I had made one for my husband's niece last October. When my sister's daughter, Nora, who loves me bordering on idolization, saw a picture of that cake, she was not pleased. "Who's THAT girl?" Nora demanded of my sister. Her face sunk when Sheila explained it was another niece of mine. That possibility had not occurred to little Nora.

When I visited at Christmas, Nora immediately took me into her room, narrowed her eyes, and told me, "I saw that cake you made, Aunt Patty." Busted. She may as well have accused, "Are you stepping out on me, Aunt Patty?"

Naturally, I quickly promised her a Barbie cake of her own. So last night, I made a fine-sounding recipe for 1-2-3-4 yellow butter cake from my sister's Joy of Cooking. I put it into the Pampered Chef batter bowl, which makes a perfect skirt-like shape, and placed it in the oven, timing it for the required 30 minutes. But at 45 minutes, it was quite brown on top, yet the tester came out wet. I gave it 15 more minutes and took it out, satisfied that it seemed solid enough, and concerned it might burn. But when I turned it onto the cooking rack, it collapsed into a liquid lava mess, seeping through the rack and oozing all along the counter.

I had not factored in the altitude here, making baking a craps shoot. My sister was putting the kids to bed, when she heard me say, "Oh no!" She came out into the kitchen to find me laughing with my head in my hands over the counter. We were both amazed I hadn't flown into a rage, and propelled it, mom-style.

The next day, Sheila made a replacement cake. From a quick mix. Baked for an hour and a half, at a lower temp for the second 45 minutes. Success. Not a slow-foods triumph, but Nora got her coveted cake, and Sheila and I triumphed over the adversity of baking disaster.