Before I apologize for the heap of shit that is this week’s cake, which I realize I’ve been doing a lot lately, let me tell you right off the bat that this post is chock-full of interactive photographs. So roll your cursor over hot spots, click on things, and be prepared to get a face full of HTML magic. And if you’re reading this on a smartphone, you’re poop-outta luck, friend. (ALSO NOTE - If you're reading this in the archives - I mean, if you're reading this on the blogger site - which you most certainly are - you're also poop outta luck, friend.)
ANYWAY
I’m so sorry, guys. It’s Adam’s fault. And if you’re asking whether or not I feel guilty about placing false blame, I’d have to point out that that question is irrelevant. Did I not just tell you that it was Adam’s fault? That is the truth, and not at all a lie.
Whenever Adam Ellis is in town, we make cake plans. This time was no different. We’d been gaining momentum. The Game Boy cake and the Lobster cake remain my most popular posts, which probably has nothing to do with the fact that Adam’s hideous face is all over both of them. As we discussed cake ideas, certain that the hat trick was in the bag, we made the fatal mistake of putting actual effort into the project. We thought about texture, about structure, about materials. Adam bought tools. We over-thought it. Also, this time, there was alcohol.
So it’s 5pm on Friday, and I’ve just gotten out of work. I meet up with Adam at Grand Central Station, and we make our way down to Brooklyn. Adam had just left a meeting with his editor in which they discussed book-related things. We stop at a liquor store and Adam spends 15 minutes lamenting the fact that his vodka of choice is not there. We arrive at my apartment. We have every intention of making an attractive cake. Honestly. But at some point early on, our momentum switched directions. Away from cake city, in the direction of drunktown.
(don’t forget to rollover and click, nuggets) (Actually, do. Do forget. It doesn't work here.)
You may or may not have figured out the original goal for this cake. We wanted to make a few little sushi/sashimi cakes. In our heads, they were adorable. They were small, meticulously crafted, and anatomically correct. They didn’t look anything like this:
Let’s find some other things to blame this failure on. Since moving to Carroll Gardens, I haven’t really made a cake from start to finish in this kitchen area. Up until this point I’ve been spoiled with ample marble countertops, dishwashers, cable television, boats, and hoes. No longer. Nowadays I can only dream of watching 8 hour blocks of Super Sweet Sixteen while rolling fondant onto twenty-five square feet of smooth slate. It only took about an MTV commercial break’s amount of time for Adam and I to clutter up our sad little workspace to the point where one couldn’t roll a cigarette, let alone enough fondant to cover a cake.
Adam came closest to making something halfway presentable. The little salmon sashimi was, in fact, adorable. And then he killed it.
Rollover them pearly whites.
After a solid half hour of believing that we were still going to somehow pull this one off, friends started arriving. Now Katie’s ever-present weird soy crisps and inevitable guacamole were adding to the table clutter. At some point, we threw in the towel. My friends marveled at the artistic process they were witnessing.
Look how funny we are! Look at what light we make of a crap situation! We are to be commended. The rest of the night went beautifully, and there were no more bad things ever, the end.
EXCEPT WAIT – Arlo, my roommate’s new pitbull, revealed the location of roommate Emilie’s elusive earplugs. NSFL – ahhhh too late, you’re already looking at it
AND THEN WHAT – Mark knocked over a $3 bottle of wine, and at the time, I found our clean-up efforts to be the funniest thing I’d ever witnessed
In the end, the focal point of the evening was not cake. Despite our best efforts. Despite our…mediocre efforts. If our efforts were education, they’d be DeVry University, is what I’m trying to say.
No comments:
Post a Comment