It was still a good learning experience. The hour was late and my patience and impulse-control were running low. I could not bear to let it cool before frosting it, and I did pay the price. Furthermore, that gel in-tube icing is no fun whatsoever, so I made more and added another layer of writing on top, to an acceptably cool effect. Was it a work of art, with its peaky writing and craterous center? Perhaps not, but it was pretty damn cute and tasted perfect.
I have since made this cake once more, for my Great-Grandma's (a.k.a. GG) 95th birthday on April 16th. Following some fantastic cake-baking tips, I halved the recipe to make a single, decadent 10" layer and omitted the raspberry filling (GG likes chocolate). The oven at The Nest is the Quarter Horse of ovens; never quite on top of things, like perhaps it was meant to be something, anything but a hunter...wait, are we talking about horses? Anyways, the oven runs cool so I just set it to the stated temperature rather than a little higher, and baked the cake a bit longer. I also made my own cake strips by neatly wrapping wet paper towels in aluminum foil and pinning them to the edge of the pan. Planning ahead helped, as I had all day Saturday to let the cake cool first in the pan, then on the rack, before wrapping it in plastic wrap and moving it to the freezer. The chilly and remarkably even layer, removed about an hour later, was about a thousand times easier to handle, and less crumby. A bit of ganache softened in the microwave made a workable, waste-less crumb coat, after which the cake was retired to the fridge for a half-hour or so. The main coat came out lovely and smooth.
For the writing, I chose to trace out my letters in the ganache with a toothpick first. I have a lot of icing anxiety, and this experience did little to assuage it. I followed the JoyofBaking.com royal icing recipe, which was simple and did not require any thermometers (I refuse to make any kind of frosting or icing which requires a bloody candy thermometer) and dyed it a faint blue. I piped "Happy 95th Birthday GG!" over my tracing, and decorated the edge with pale blue dots. It was really quite beautiful...
...until the icing broke. Why did this happen?! Fortunately, GG is quite nearly blind, not that she would ever have said anything even if she could see how the liquidy parts spread away from the stiffer center and dried that way. My only guess is that perhaps I did not beat the eggs thoroughly enough, and the lemon juice ran off with some of the lumen. How annoying! It was practically perfect in every way, but for the icing. Boo.
Regardless, it was a nice 95th birthday party, and having never heard the story before, I begged to hear how GG met Vincent, her long-time boyfriend of truly staggering vitality. Vincent left us at the age of 104, and what a fabulous character he was, aqua Cadillac and all.
It must have been in the early or mid 80's, as my great grandfather died in 1986 quite soon after I was born, I think. A strapping farmer born in French-speaking Maine, my great grandfather was steadily deteriorating under Alzheimer's. His wife, a petite 5'4", cared for him until family and friends insisted that she could no longer manage his needs alone, and so he was sent to a professional care facility. She visited always.
GG was not long after this decision swimming with a friend, enjoying Senior Swim hour, which actually lasted 2 hours. Most of the attendees were women, to whom 2 lanes were devoted, while the other lanes were for the men, of which there was only one. You can hear my great grandma laughing at herself when she describes how sorry she felt for the little old man, swimming by himself. Perhaps she thought she was brightening his day in exchanging pleasantries after being introduced to Mr. Vincent Stella by her friend, Terry.
After their swim, my great grandmother went to Boston Chicken (as it was called in those days) for lunch, while Terry went home, having already eaten. And who should she bump into there but the little old man from the pool! My great grandma must have thought herself quite charitable, offering to pay for the little old man's lunch, but he declined and insisted on paying for hers instead. As she watched him go to his aqua-blue Cadillac, she felt even sorrier for him. Said she, to herself: "That must be his only possession left in the world! Poor thing."
I think that, to use my mother's favorite expression, I come by my love of story-telling honestly. I cannot imagine that my great grandma would keep such a funny tale to herself, and so she told Terry, who laughed and laughed. "Oh, no!" she must have cried, telling her friend not to pity the little old man, who had emigrated from Italy at the age of 14 and had cheerfully retired at forty thanks to a thriving oil business. He had had a wife, and plenty of children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren.
My great grandmother then recalls sitting at home one day, now empty without her husband, and seeing a be-hatted head bob past the window. She looked up, and when she heard a knock at the door, she pressed herself into a corner that gave her a convenient, secretive view of the door through a great picture window. There stood Vincent! Surprised as anything - or perhaps surprised only for the story - she invited him in, and after he crossed the threshold he swept off his hat. My great grandfather was, I know, quite a good man, but he and Vincent must have been like night and day. The former had been hard of hearing since boyhood, and was not naturally inclined to exuberance. He was tall and strong, quiet and shy, never drank or smoked, and wanted above anything to return to his farm after the war. His father sold off everything during the war: the plow horses, the property, the livestock and machinery, and when the tractor was finally sold, my great grandfather wept. Vincent was not a tall man, but was meticulously groomed and fashionable, taking great pride in his appearance. He loved to dance and loved to be photographed, and had a bigness all his own.
And after sitting with my great grandmother for some time, Vincent asked her to dinner.
