In some other lifetime, or so it seems, I lived and
breathed cakes. Cookies. Pies. Rolls. That era ended sixteen years ago.
Occasionally someone asks me, “Don’t you miss your bakery?” My answer is always the same: no. It was a successful business
frequented by appreciative people, but there’s a time for all seasons. This is
no longer the bakery season.
However, last weekend our local grandson and I baked a
12”x18” chocolate cake for tomorrow's Boy Scout cake auction. Today I climbed back in the bakery saddle
with a pastry tube in hand (that’s a horrible mixed metaphor) and
helped him decorate it.
Our completed camping cake features 1.) a
lake with sandy/stony beach, 2.) a pier and fish; 2.) two tents; 3.) a campfire ring with
stacked wood; and 4.) various pine trees and bushes.
The boy-baker is responsible for many of the fine details,
including the pier, school of jumping fish, candy rocks underwater in the
shallows, fondant sleeping bags in the tents, dandelions in the back field, and
moss on the log pile.
Everything about this cake – every stone, blade of grass,
and flame in the fire pit - is edible, with one exception. The marshmallows by the fire are tiny balls
of fondant, but their roasting sticks are made of toothpicks. Real wood.
Don’t eat those.
We’ll see what happens at the auction tomorrow. My wild
guess is that this cake will bring at least $50, but who knows? It’s hard to predict when a Scout’s dad and
grampa start bidding against each other.
J
