Dress rehearsal

During our visit to Germany this spring, I made the Persian Love Cake for two newly wed friends. With the cake still in their mouths, they blushingly made a request: would I help them plan their stateside reception by tasting wedding cake, since I clearly knew what they liked? It was easy to agree.

Home again, I dutifully went to the website of their prospective caterer, and looked over the offerings. Drop-dead gorgeous, special cakes indeed, and the flavor combinations sounded lovely for a July garden party filled with laughing children and flowing dresses. But there was a voice whispering in the back of my mind, and it started to rant loudly when I started looking at the prices and paired it with the look on our friends’ faces when the rose cake came out of the fridge.

I have a composition book where I scribble random eco-foodie thoughts, and the page for that day has a big question circled: Could I make it myself?

I begin mulling over the idea, but know I need more information. I turn to the library, which yields books with numerous variations of elegant tiered structures. I learn that the engineering isn’t a huge issue; it’s all basic support systems – circles and dowels – to keep layers from squishing each other. But looks aren’t what I’m interested in. My cake is all about texture, a sensual experience for the mouth. These books talk only about appearances. They don’t address scaling up the softness of my saffron whipped cream and candied rose petals, instead suggesting hard, inedible royal icing swags and piped flowers. I’m not sure it’s possible to do what I want.

I turn to friends: I recall that my friendly dessert rival Rick once made a wedding cake for friends, and posted a web site detailing the entire process. I read it through twice, filling the rest of that notebook page with answers and as many questions. My notes have the word “Cake Bible” underscored three times, and a school parking lot meeting has him handing over his dog-eared copy (the marginalia are informative, alternating scathing and gushing), along with cake pans and a Styrofoam “cake” for practicing with a pastry tube. Rose Levy Berenbaum’s tome falls open to a picture of a pistachio rose wedding cake. It is clearly meant to be, and within fifteen minutes, I am online, ordering a copy for myself. I am ashamed to admit that my shelf is missing this exquisite book, one that talks not only of construction techniques but considers the texture of the cake—and then tells me how to achieve it.

I know then that I can do this, though it is equally clear that it will call for planning and some serious test kitchen runs. My family is game for the testing phase, they assure me. Emboldened, I call our friends in Switzerland and pop the question: May I make their cake? They say yes, yes, yes!

Everything I read tells me that wedding cakes are butter cakes with buttercream frosting. My cake, when I make it at home, is a light génoise with a fluffy whipped cream coat. Joy tells me I need a sturdy cake; Mastering the Art talks about icing: fondant, buttercream, ganache, all solid. But I really want my soft génoise and whipped cream. Rose (for we are now soul mates and on a first-name basis, though she never calls me) comes to my rescue, assuring me that stabilizing whipped cream is not only possible, but will give me that tongue-yielding texture I desire in a package that can endure July afternoon temperatures. I must, however have a cream with between 35 and 40 percent fat content. A call to the 800 number on the back of the Organic Valley whipping cream reveals that its fat content is a whopping 38%. The reticent Midwesterner on the phone is a bit taken aback by my enthusiastic reaction, but I’m too busy with my happy dance to notice. Things are falling into place.

Armed with little génoise cupcakes, I devise a nefarious test to abuse frosting subjects A, B, and C. Frosting A is stabilized with cornstarch, cooked into the cream (handy, since I must heat the cream to infuse the saffron anyway); B is my unadulterated recipe, and C is an attempt to stabilize with gelatin (ironically, I have gelatin in my cupboard only because one of the brides handed it to me in a grocery bag during their move last year). C is by all accounts a failure—my fault, not Rose’s, since she warned me not to beat it too long, and I allowed myself to be distracted by an overly cute child. We left A & B out for long hours under hot lights, refrigerated them without covering overnight, and repeated the cycle. Visitors to our home were recruited to help evaluate the guinea pig cupcakes, and the results were resounding: B, while tasty, was drooping, so beautiful, tasty, yielding A wins. We have our frosting, and I know that I can eschew the piped look for the gentle cream wisps and rose petals.

Ah, the roses. Last year's roses were from that self-same bride’s garden, now under new ownership. I must find a new source for roses. I call the co-op, and they apologetically tell me they just can’t guarantee a source. Hmm. No problem, I think: all the wedding cake books I’ve read make it sound like a simple matter to just call up the florist and ask for unsprayed roses. I systematically work my way through the yellow pages, and only one florist, Lawrence in Bellevue, deigns to reply, telling me that I really don’t want his roses, for beautiful as they are, they are bred for appearance not fragrance and sprayed far too much to risk eating. He is, however, willing to help sample the baking! I relate this exchange to some parents at pickup that afternoon: an eco-reactionist friend tells me of the 230-odd chemicals that are sprayed on the roses she just picked up at Whole Foods, and the cello teacher-cum-friend quietly mentions she has beautiful, pink, fragrant roses that bloom early, and she never sprays. I smile and ask if I may have some. Yes, indeed, she says, though her motivations are not entirely altruistic—she has heard of this cake and has a soft spot for cardamom. She’s very happy to help test, should the need arise. My ranks of willing guinea pigs are swelling.

Now I only have to figure out two more things: how to actually make the cake, when all I have is a hand mixer and a 6-cup Cuisinart, and how to present it.

I figure I’ll tackle the easier matter first. I heard to the cupboard and measure all my platters. My largest is 14” in diameter, but not flat. I need something designed for the task—I can’t envision a towering cake on a tiny plate. I search for cake plates online, and discover the large silver-plated display pedestals commonly used by professionals. Yikes, though—ninety dollars for something I’d use once and that looks, well, too traditional for my purposes. eBay does a bit better on pricing, but shipping erases any advantage. I decide I’m not ready to buy a plateau, but I do look at some of the support systems for sale, and find that there are very reasonable plastic cake rounds that will fit the bill. I carefully note those specifications for later. A few days later, I’m enjoying a morning cuddle in Little One’s bed, and I look up at the delightful recycled glass icicles and hearts from Bedrock Industries that we used to embellish the IKEA light fixture: I hop downstairs, and look online at the glass curtains they make to spec. The prices are comparable to the cookie-cutter cake plates on eBay, but I can easily see myself using a handmade glass plate in many scenarios. I make a call, and Chris assures me that it should be no problem to make up something to fulfill my image—just come in some day and we’ll chat.

Which leaves only the cake itself. Rose tells me I can have my génoise, but no larger than 12 inches in diameter, and I trust her. It's still a lot of cake to make in one go, though. I think of the people from whom I bought my violin. Grounded Henry, often humming over his luthier’s workbench, is complemented by effusive Debbie, who, discovering that I bake too, leads me with a grin into the back room. Their typical 50s suburban storage room sports a wall of honey-bottomed violins and violas on one side and heavy aluminum professional baking appliances on the other. He is a third-generation luthier; she comes from professional bakers. In a place of honor stands an A200 Hobart – twenty quarts of pure mixing pleasure. We exchange baking war stories, and she says to let her know if I’d ever like to borrow it. Is she kidding? I shoot off an email, and, yes, she remains enthusiastic about sharing her toy.

The scene is set.