With the publication of this post, I emerge from a baking haze, a veritable prison of musk sticks, and an overwhelming desire to sink down into a bath full of vienna cream and never come out again.
Imagine me all Betty-Page-esque with a thick fringe and a retro bikini supporting the ample curves that the recent sugar overdose has lovingly bestowed upon my tiny frame; lolling in the bath with my foot hooked over the edge and the cat licking the cream from my toes. Now there's a mental picture for you.
Last week I attempted the impossible. I did not know it was impossible at the time, but now I am MORE than aware of just how ridiculous it was. I mean, just read the intro about the bath. My mental health is clearly at risk.
Three cakes. But not just *any* three cakes. Not the three that are all a variation on the snail, and not the three that are all a variation on the theme of farmyard/zoo/can't remember the third one. Rodeo? Cattle yard? My synapses are shot.
No, the three cakes on my list were not easy. They were:
- the log cabin
- the ladybird
- and the Jet Plane
These were not easy cakes. There was architecture, and engineering involved. There was structural calculation. There was acres of green coconut, and my fingers are only just beginning to turn pink again.
Log Cabins are where the crazy people live in horror movies. They are cabins with snaggle-toothed shingles hanging at precarious angles (I have included one at a particularly special angle, directly on the edge of left hand row of licorice allsort shingles you see there). They are cabins with gaps in the walls, where the wind whistles in and narrowed eyes stare out.
Four hours of decoration went into this little masterpiece, and with it my sanity and pretty much my desire to ever look at another cake, EVER in my life AGAIN.
I would just like to note for the record that there is a REASON that The Book does not have a photograph of the back of this cake, and it is because that is where you see Hell. It is a mess of icing and coconut and pillars of Flake holding up the cantilevered roof of cake.
There are thirteen Cadbury Flakes in that roof, people. Thirteen. (Which, naturally, made it a HUGE hit at work and there was not a skerrick to be seen by the time the ravening hordes had finished with it!)
And I had to pin the chimney onto the roof with barbeque skeweres, for fear that the whole thing would collapse and bring down the roof with it.
So beware, dear readers, if you wish to attempt this cake. Set aside time, and possibly Valium. Certainly wine, though save it until afterwards if you actually want to finish it. Prepare yourself for a trip to the dark side.
Beware, the Cabin In The Woods.