CakeCakeCake

Oma thought, “what a brilliant idea!”  She had leftover cake in the freezer (from the near disaster of that @drakeoncake episode), scads of sprinkles, a bag of powdered sugar, and a cube of butter.  The preschoolers were coming tomorrow.  She would instruct them in cake decorating.  They would love it.

Oma defrosted the chocolate layer, cut it into little cake shapes with a drinking glass, and beat buttercream with her KitchenAid.  She portioned one tablespoon of sprinkles into three Dixie cups, one for each tot, and hid the rest.  (Leaving a half-full bag on the counter would invite speculation that more sprinkles could be available, forcing Oma to defend: Nope, that’s all the sprinkles we have today, guys.  Just the ones in your cup.  Yes, I sure can buy more someday, but we have enough for today. No, don’t eat them yet, please. Soon you can eat them. Yes, I promise — you can eat your sprinkles later. All the ones in your own cup. Right.)

Then, she expertly frosted each teeny, personal-sized cake with a crumb layer and stuck those back in the fridge until the proper time.  The rest of the frosting she divided among six ramekins.

Oma did all of this prior to the arrival of the tots on the day, as any clever Oma would.  (Never completely avoidable, Omas know that chaos is mitigated with a bit of prep and a lot of patience.)  After a breakfast of sausage links all around and some horseplay with Opa, the punkins were ready.  Oma called them into the kitchen.

Who wants to decorate a cake? she called.

“CAKE! CAKE!  CAKE!”

With the zeal of stampeding lemmings, three tots clambered each for a favored kitchen stool. Oma brought cakes out of the fridge.

I WANT THAT ONE! I WANT THE ONE ON THE WHITE FISHY PLATE! I WANT THIS ONE!

Don’t touch the cakes, please, commanded Oma.  The tots stopped touching and looked in her general direction.

Now, she began.  Before you eat cake, you must frost cake.  But you must do what I say, otherwise you can’t frost your cake.  Okay?

All okayed.

Oma placed her new set of gel food color bottles on the counter.  Then she removed black and brown, deciding that those “colors” were unnecessary for this endeavor.

“I want pink!”

“I want blue!”

“I want…”

Wait! interrupted Oma.  They waited. Each of you can choose two colors.  And you can share!  That way you’ll have more colors!  Mr. Mo, what color do you want? 

He wanted blue and yellow; Miss N of course wanted pink and purple, and Miss E. wanted a bright, grass green and red.  Done.  Against her better judgement, Oma allowed each to squirt just a little bit! of gel into a ramekin and then stir, stir, stir frosting until the colors were saturated.

Next, Oma  –

NOPE! Wait, please!  Don’t touch your cake! Licking is touching, guys – don’t lick frosting.  No, not even the little bit on the side of the bowl…okay.  Just that little bit right there, no more. Yes, you can, too. Just one little taste.  That’s enough.  Ready? — next we must put your frosting into these piping bags.  See?

—using her newfound quar-routine skill, inserted frosting into a piping bag and smooshed it down towards the tip. She did that for six bags of different colors.  She demonstrated to her pupils how to twist the open end of the bag around and around, directing the frosting blob towards the business end of the tip and not back out the way it had just entered the bag.

“I taste it?” asked Mr. Mo.

NO, NO TASTING yet – okay, just a little taste.  Here, hold out your finger and I’ll squirt a bit onto it.  Does it taste good?  Yes?  Like raspberry?  Really? Everybody — hold out your finger. Got some? Okay. Let’s get back to work.  Ready?  If you hold the twisted end of the bag, and squeeze its middle, look!  Frosting comes out the tip!  Now you can decorate your ca –

Before Oma could finish yet another sentence –whammo! — three sets of fingers squished three bags of colored buttercream out their tips.   Smooth, creamy frosting piled like snakes atop each mini cake platform, rising taller and pointier by the nanosecond. Swirls of red, looping with green tendrils, dipped down a side only to be scooped up by a swift finger. And licked. One color down, the bag operator instantly polished off the frosting trail by rapping her lips around the tip and – Oma realized this after the fact – sucking.  Deeply. Empty piping bags were tossed.  New ones acquired. Swiftly, nay urgently, a new hue was procured, emptied, then flung aside as flotsam after a tsunami. Frosting mountains grew pointier.  Cake platforms groaned under the weight.

Sprinkles were flung with abandon.  And then they were done.

Are you all finished?  Yay — your cakes are so pretty WAIT!  Let’s show your mommies before you eat them. Here you go, carry your cake carefully.

Decorated cakes deserved ooh-ing and aww-ing, so Oma directed her pupils to oh-so-carefully carry their masterpieces to the living room to be admired by mommies and baby E.

 

“We eat our cakes now?” asked Mr. Mo.

Sure!  Who needs a fork?

Silly Oma.  Who, indeed? In seconds frosting mountains were reduced to plains, and Oma realized – this may have not been so brilliant after all.

All done?  Yes, you are.  Quick, boots and coats on, we’re going outside. No, you can take the rest of your cake home.  Let’s go run off some of that sugar, shall we?

 

Candyland has nonthin’ on mini cakes at Oma’s house.