The Unfuck Yourself Cake

This cake scared the shit out of me.

I intended to bring it to board game night, my first time back after returning to the East Coast. This cake was meant to be a yellow cake from my favorite recipe, filled with chocolate mousse and wrapped in chocolate frosting. It was also the first cake in almost five months made with the blog in mind. I thought that as soon as I started baking again I’d start writing again, and once I started writing I could figure out some smart, funny way to explain my move back to DC.

Here’s how that went.

  • I didn’t start baking until 10 at night
  • I realized I forgot to buy cake flour
  • I stood at the kitchen counter for thirty minutes debating whether to go back to the store or just give up
  • I didn’t have a single clever thing to say



Peppermint Patty Cake: The Rise of Eggneto

I love whipping egg whites.  My mixer works way faster than recipes think it will, so I always feel like I’m ahead of the curve. I like motors and going fast. And I get a great deal of joy out of bending eggs into unlikely shapes through by holding my hand in place for a really long time. It makes me feel like Magneto.

MagnetoSketch_Color_200-1024x757(original by Kyle Frink, may he have mercy on my soul)

That’s why this cake is such a joy to make. It requires nine eggs, whipped up to obscene heights and molded into unexpected forms. It’s also a joy to eat. The filling is silky, the icing shines, and the cake itself just dissolves on the tongue. Also, it’s safe for gluten-free and dairy-sensitive people to eat. (There is milk in the chocolate, so it isn’t completely dairy-free.)

A Brief Word on Baking For People With Food Sensitivities

Feel free to skip this part if you are making the cake for non-gluten-sensitive people, or already have a gluten-free kitchen.

I am a lazy, corner-cutting bastard by nature. But food allergies, sensitivities, and intolerances are not to be fucked around with. This is how I try to keep my friends and assorted cake-eaters safe. It takes a little work, but so does all baking. You shouldn’t feel obligated to make someone a gluten-free cake, just like you shouldn’t feel obligated to make ANY cake. But if you do say your food is free of an allergen, there isn’t any room for error on your part.

Personally, I am a trash human being. I don’t trust a single thing in my kitchen to be free of gluten or any other allergen. I get so much flour on my countertops that you could probably drop my entire kitchen in a deep fryer and serve it at a county fair. If you are anything like me—and by that I mean, if you have any doubt at all that your implements are not 100% clean and could never have been exposed to gluten since you put them away—wash them again with hot water, soap, and a new sponge. Scrub down the surfaces you’re going to be working on, or at least put a bit of plastic wrap down to rest your equipment on.

Think about your ingredients. Is it possible that you stuck a used measuring cup or spoon in those ingredients? Could you have possibly failed to scrub all the flour out of that jar before storing sugar in it? If so, open up a fresh version. Fortunately, this recipe only calls for two ingredients that could have been cross-contaminated–sugar and cocoa powder–and they’re both pretty cheap to buy new.



The Rubble Cake, or, What To Do When You Fuck Up

Shit happens. Has shit happened to you recently? Have you been the shit that happened to your kitchen?

Did your overly ambitious chocolate layer cake unravel in a dramatic lesson about man’s hubris?


Did your attempts at making tiny sandwich snack cakes in charming winter patterns end up looking more like mayonnaise sandwiches on Wonder bread?


Are you, like your cake, crumbling with feelings of inadequacy due to an inability to meet self-imposed deadlines?

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Are you, like me, asking a series of questions in the second person to reassure yourself that you aren’t alone in the universe?

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You aren’t alone. It’s going to be okay. In a world with butter, sugar, and brandy, all things are possible. Here’s how we fix it.


Hubris Cake Part Two: Bourbon Buttercream Chocolate Disaster

This cake uses three 9″ layers of chocolate cake. I used the least destroyed layers from the Hubris Cake. Feel free to make better life choices.

The real star of this cake is the bourbon buttercream icing. This was my first attempt at buttercream. But here’s the thing about hubris: nobody learns their lesson. Ever. Until they’re dead, or a spider, or stabbing out their own eyes because they slept with their mom.

So, hey! Let’s make the most complicated buttercream possible, disregard the quantities described by the brilliant Joe Pastry, and fill it with alcohol! What could go wrong?


Hubris Cake Part One: The Layers

I have a problem with chocolate cake.

This problem goes against all my Tenets Of Cake: the best cake is the one that makes the baker happy; shortcuts are awesome; sweat and suffering doesn’t actually make a cake taste better. But as soon as chocolate is involved, all my goodwill goes out the window. People go fucking crazy over anything with chocolate in it. Nobody has to work for chocolate flavor! A bar of Ghirardelli overshadows any citrus chiffon cake, paprika-spiced apples, or spice oil infusion that I can conjure. And it isn’t fair.

I am a whiny pissbaby about chocolate pastries. I’m not proud. That’s just how it is.

But people love their chocolate, and sometimes I am dumb enough to take cake requests. A friend at the comic book shop needed a going-away cake. Another friend had a birthday that same week. They both love chocolate. I conceded and, with no grace at all, decided to make two cakes at once with the most complicated fucking chocolate cake in the Joy of Cooking.

This went beyond pride to straight-up hubris. Hubris is arrogance on steroids, and it never ends well. Think Ariadne declaring that she’s a better weaver than Athena, or Odysseus deciding that he isn’t going to listen to a single goddamn piece of advice anyone gives him on the way home from Troy. When mortals decide they’re on the level of gods, the gods proceed to fuck their shit up. On this blog, I occasionally declare myself a God of Cake. I took it to far. I forgot that I am still subject to the unknowable forces of Oven, Ingredients, and Insufficiently Prepared Pans. I was punished.

Cake One was planned as a big three-layer chocolate cake with bourbon buttercream icing. Cake Two was planned as a single-layer cake with a hidden reservoir of caramel sauce and a coating of caramel, dark chocolate, and crushed pretzels. This did not go as planned.



Tiny Chocolate Wine Cakes

I would like to take a moment to thank all of my friends for having birthdays. They enable my cake-related megalomania, and I love them for it. My friend Sarah likes red wine. She likes chocolate. And she had a birthday last week. These tiny cakes were the result, and they’re fucking magical. Rounds of rich red wine chocolate cake perch on thin discs of solid bittersweet chocolate, topped off with a dusting of powdered sugar and a swirl of cream cheese icing.

That sounds fancy as shit. And it is. But this base cake recipe is very, very forgiving.  The equipment used is a reward in and of itself. Through the magic of the holiday season, I received a number of tiny baking implements. And through the magic of this recipe, I got to use them all.


This construction is also really tasty. When I’m putting together a new recipe, I aim for an initial punch of introductory flavor, a mellower but more satisfying mid-taste, and a lingering aftertaste. If my flavors trip all over each other, I haven’t made a dish. I’ve made a mess. This time, I got it right. The bittersweet crunch of the solid chocolate base is followed by the sweet tang of the icing, and rounded out by rich cocoa and red wine cake.

In short, this stuff is incredible. Grab hold of your tiny bakeware and follow me.


Boston Cream Lies

If you have never had a Boston cream pie, consider the donut of the same name. Except instead of a single sad squirt of vanilla-ish pudding in the middle, there is a half-inch-thick layer of pastry cream. Replace the donut with sponge cake. And imagine that, once you’re finished with the first helping, there will be so many more slices right there in front of you.

Some incredibly incorrect person decided to name this perfect dish  Boston cream pie. It is not a fucking pie. It is a cake. I have no clue who decided that a two-layer sponge cake with pastry cream and chocolate ganache was a pie, but they were wrong.

I bake Boston cream pies on New Year’s Eve. Since I’m 23 and I’ve done it two years in a row, I’ll call it a tradition. An essential part of this baking process is being in Canada, where my friends congregate once a year. Boston cream pie is universally delicious, but I think that an atmosphere of imminent frozen death really adds to the experience.


Exciting baking opportunities now available on Hoth!

Last year, I had just begun my terrible spiral into fancy cake hell, so I used boxed yellow cake for the layers. This year, I decided to make the cake from scratch. I know that the Internet has a thousand good recipes for sponge cake, with helpful diagrams and beautiful pictures. But Lawrence, my best friend and our host, had an old version of the Joy of Cooking in the pantry.

I grew up with The Joy of Cooking. My family’s battered, annotated, stained copy lived above the stove and grew fat on recipe clippings stuck between the pages. I loved that book. I made my first brownies and ginger snaps and cookies out of that book. It was the arbiter of all food-related arguments in the house, and my guide to everything that tasted like home. I considered going to Miami in the dead of night in order to steal it from my parents. Unfortunately, that particular volume started to grow mold and had to be put out of its misery. Sometimes, unfortunately, good old things become toxic nightmares. And sanitation wins out over sentimentality, even in my crusty, grumpy, crying-over-cookbooks heart.

So when I saw Lawrence’s copy, I latched on immediately and flung myself, all trusting, into an abyss of sponge cakes.