Once the previews for the Nora Ephron novel-turned-movie, ""Julie and Julia"" hit the TV, I knew I was a goner. A self-proclaimed food enthusiast who likes to make as many goodies from scratch as possible, I tend to tackle projects in the kitchen that take me hours, even days, to complete. Therefore it's no surprise that I really empathized and connected with Julie, a woman coping with post-9/11 stress as a customer support representative for the New York City Building Planning Commission.
After contemplating her professional existence as a writer, Julie decides to write a blog detailing her cooking expedition though Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking and nearly losing her sanity and her marriage in the process. Although I'm not married, I was in a long-term relationship, and I know the stress of taking on extra projects can equally cause strain on a relationship. So in the middle of the film, I found myself thinking that I'm not sure I would have been as bold as Julie to continue cooking after a few mental breakdowns. However, after laughing and crying right along with her culinary trials and tribulations, I, a newly single foodie, decided to take on a therapeutic, soul-searching challenge of my own.
When I got home from the movie, I pulled out my America's Test Kitchen Baking Book and turned to the section I'd been avoiding—The three-tier wedding cake. This made-from-scratch monstrosity had its own chapter in a book that spent half as much time on cookies and quick breads. Glaring back from the glossy white page was a checklist so long, I felt like I was in an advanced chemistry class—and failing after the first day.
The baking process went a little something like this: Make the cake recipe three times. Cool the cakes on a rack and then refrigerate. Simmer the filling and let it set in the fridge for hours. Don't get too comfortable, now bring the cakes to room temperature. Spread the filling carefully between each layer, assembling each tier one at a time, and stick the three tiers in the freezer. Next, whip the egg whites for the butter cream frosting, adding the softened butter one chunk at a time until the mixture resembles soft, whipped butter—not plaster of Paris.
Take the cakes out of the freezer and allow them to thaw. Spread the butter cream on the tiers, one at a time, smoothing out any flaws with a long-level spatula. Stick the tiers back in the fridge, letting the butter cream set. Next, stack the tiers and hide any mistakes with a little mound o' butter cream here and a little sweep of butter cream there. Stick it back in the fridge until ready to serve. I feel confident that making a baby from would take less time.
But after tremendous effort that spanned across three days, it was time to take my made-from-scratch baby out into the world. This baby, a yellow cake with apricot filling and vanilla butter cream, was designed to feed 68 people, so I decided to take it to work. I might be newly single, but there's no way I'm eating a three-tier cake on my own. I've moved past that stage. I carefully packed my cake, which easily weighed about 30 pounds, into a cardboard box. I drove cautiously, not wanting to tip it and damage the butter cream walls.
The cake arrived at work unscathed and ready to eat. I took a photo of my conquest, disassembled the layers and with a very small tear in my eye (OK, maybe not), I cut it into over 68 pieces.
Then, I hand-delivered each slice to my co-workers and eagerly awaited their reaction. And suddenly, it was all worth it to see the looks on their faces as they thoughtfully bit into the cake. Everyone loved it. Someone even said it was better than their own wedding cake.
And I felt like I had achieved some strange sense of accomplishment and peace. OK, so I didn't cook through over 500 recipes like Julie. And yeah, my ex-boyfriend and I didn't make the cut for lasting relationships. But, in the end, I proved to myself that, regardless of culinary experience, I can bake the shit out of a three-tier wedding cake all by myself.
