The Story Continues: Chef in Training

Hello Again!

If you came back to read this post, you must be okay with the fact that I’m a Cupcake Camp dropout, and for that, I thank you!

Jorie, circa 2000, proudly holding my very own gingerbread house. Disclaimer: I will continue using baby pictures because my self-esteem is not ready for pictures of 12-14 year-old Jorie to hit the internet (braces and glasses were not my look).

Anyway, let’s pick up where we left off, shall we?

I believe I just revealed that I dropped out of Cupcake Camp.

I mean really, you can’t expect me, a savvy twelve-year-old with purpose and discipline, to return to that barbarian cupcake camp ridden with who-knows-what kind of diseases. Sigh. Square one, again. 

That fall after my failed attempt at summer camp my mom came across cake decorating classes at the local craft store. She called to sign my same friend and I up for redemption. Unbeknownst to us, we had to be sixteen to take the class by ourselves. Problem solved, Mom’s coming too!

We trudge through the Ohio snow to arrive at the first class of “Buttercream Basics.” Little did we know that Betty Crocker herself would be our instructor. Okay, may not actually Betty, but Miss Sandy was pushing 85 and had never gone a day without wearing an apron; though she could make a mean buttercream rose in her sleep. After four weeks of Miss Sandy’s strict frosting bootcamp, we all knew how to make a round cake with a rainbow and clowns on it. Pure elegance. 

We received our Buttercream Basics diplomas (except for my friend, who hated the class, and everything related to cake decorating, and decided to hang up her apron. FYI—she is very talented in other areas!), and that was that. 

Except, aha! THIS could be how I make my money! 

After all, I did love the decorating and took to it easily. With a little practice, I’d be off and running in no time, right?

Have you ever taken a bite of sand?

Jorie, 2013, proudly standing behind the very first wedding cake I ever made. I was 15, and was so very close to exiting that very awkward stage of life (see note above).

That was my starting point for a from-scratch vanilla cake recipe. That little bit of practice I thought I’d need turned into many months of recipe testing with many failed attempts and many dollars spent on wasted ingredients. You’d be surprised how many “Light and Fluffy White Cake” and “Best Vanilla Cupcake” recipes result in gritty hockey pucks better used as paperweights or adhesive paste than delicate desserts. 

I paused on the cake testing at the gentle urge of my parents who were tired of trying terrible samples and pretending they “weren’t that bad.” In the meantime, a little frosting recipe testing could pass the time until we were ready to brave the cake arena yet again. 

The buttercream recipe I was taught in cupcake class was made from, how do you say it—lard. Yeah, that white slimy stuff that comes in the giant Crisco cans that we’re 98% sure comes from unpleasant animal parts. (In my opinion, that shouldn’t classify as buttercream. You know, since it’s not butter. Though I suppose if they marketed it as lardcream, no one would willingly partake.) The lard alone was a turnoff, but the fact that my mom’s entire kitchen and everything in it was coated with a hefty layer of shortening didn’t help its cause. Gross. 

Upon further research with a hint of a miracle, I learned that American-style buttercream omits the lard. Woohoo! Leave it to America to commit to 100% butter. Thank you for your service, Ms. Paula Deen. One trip to Sam’s Club and 25 pounds of butter and powdered sugar later, I found my recipe, and haven’t turned back since. 

The infamous Salted Caramel Cupcake that looked amazing, but literally tasted like a mouthful of sand, circa 2012.

I won’t bore you with the rest of the recipe testing stories, but just know that my salted caramel cupcakes have improved roughly 9000% since my first attempt (which I served on a family vacation where everyone politely found the trash can after one bite. Sorry, Guarasci’s and Bruning’s). 

Here I’ll leave you, wondering if my family ever lets me bake for them again (hint: they did, reluctantly).

Thanks for reading!

Cheers!
jorie