3 Updates I've Made for my Palm Beach Cake Company

I’m not in Rome, Georgia anymore!

…and I haven’t been for almost two years.

A large part of my entrepreneurial story is opening and reopening Jorie Cakes four times over the last 14 years. From the midwest to two cities in the rural south, now to the glitz and glamour of south Florida, each market has different wants, needs, and priorities.

Part of the thrill of this side business for me is always learning, pivoting, trying, and growing in order to serve my customers better. My time in Ohio and Georgia, coupled with wise family and a firm faith, formed deep roots in the way I do business — led first by values and always with a desire to do the right thing, which will always be the case regardless of location.

After moving to Palm Beach, it felt a little like I was thrown into the world’s largest melting pot of entrepreneurs and expert party-throwers. I love it.

But I had to up my game if I wanted to compete.

So I did, and am constantly making subtle upgrades and branding clarifications to try to position myself in this thriving market (on another note, it seems like everyone here has a side hustle, which is amazing!).

I recently posted a video showing off my three latest upgrades for my Palm Beach County clients. You can view it here — and it’s honestly probably more entertaining than reading this article!

Three Upgrades I’ve Made for my Palm Beach Cake Company

1. Instead of using cardboard circles under my cakes, I now use what’s called a cake drum. It’s a beautiful, clean white color and sits about a half inch thick, making it easier for transportation. Plus, it adds a bit of drama to the cake design (and we always love that).

2. Luxury Packaging - I nearly drive myself crazy scrolling through the depths of Amazon to find the right packaging for all of my products. I moved up from the economical cardboard bakery boxes to extra tall, glossy boxes with a window. The economy boxes served me well, but the Palm Beach market is all about first impressions. A little tulle ribbon and a business card makes these cakes worthy of entering any luxury space, even if it’s just a quick walk through a crowded restaurant to then throw the box away. The look is worth it.

3. A little something extra goes a long way. I really try to pull out all the stops for each of my orders. I made a gender reveal cake (for twins!) and knew the couple was picking it up and going directly to the beach at sunset for their private reveal. I included two gold forks and printed the results from their doctor’s email and tied them to the box.

For birthdays, I love adding a good candle. For everything else, I try to keep some cookies or little treats on hand as a small thank you to my customers. A little really does go a long way, and sometimes it gives my customers the chance to try something they might not necessarily order.

These are just the three most forward-facing changes I’ve made. I love the challenge of always finding ways to improve my brand, try new things, and get to know my customers on a deeper level. It’s always a privilege to be a part of your most important days, and I want to help you make them count.

Until next time!

xoxo

jorie

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PS - do you love my new branding photos as much as I do? Check out https://ekfamilyphotography.com for your next family photos. 🩷

But to Minister...

“Not to be ministered unto, but to minister.” - Mark 10:42 (& Martha Berry)

It’s graduation day. !!!

A little over four years ago, before I was even a Berry student, I had to write a scholarship essay on the importance of an integrated education of the head, the heart, and the hands, and then I had to choose the most critical one. I’m pretty sure I used every buzz word in the book (e.g. - passion, character, integrity, commitment. Blah.), and afterward I remember gathering in the hallway of the Cook building with other prospective students. We all came to the obvious conclusion that if you didn’t choose the heart as the most important, then you were surely out of consideration for the scholarship.

Well, today, four years later, I’m fully bought-in to the concept of the head, the heart, and the hands. And today it’s only appropriate for me to respond to that same scholarship essay prompt, except this isn’t an essay because that’s boring and repetitive and you didn’t sign up to read an essay here. So here’s a small taste of the big impact this school continues to have on me.

The Head

You’d think this one is pretty self-explanatory. Wrong. Very wrong, especially if you go to a private liberal arts college that believes in a well-rounded education. That entails taking classes like Intro to Agricultural Science, Hispanic Literary Analysis, and Theatre, in which I made a B+, but that’s not the point of this story (okay but really, who makes a B+ in theatre?).

One of my favorite parts about Berry is that it connects students to some very important people. By the grace of God (and only the grace of God) I found myself sitting on committees with athletic directors, faculty liaisons, chiefs of staffs, and university presidents. I found myself at the NCAA Headquarters in Indianapolis, an entrepreneurship conference in Chattanooga, and on seemingly every corner of our 27,000 acre campus.

What do all these things have in common? They made me think. And think hard. And think from perspectives I’d never thought about. The chance to learn from these people and in these places is absolutely humbling. It’s also very intimidating, and really taught me how to hold back tears sitting in a board room—still working on that one, though!

The Heart

Part of the reason I love Berry is because I love the people (and dog!!) I lived with. The four of us—Eveline, Emma, Jetta, and myself—spent our senior year in one suite in Thomas Berry Hall (despite sharing our entire lives with each other, we don’t have a single picture together).

Eveline and I were randomly assigned freshman year, when the first communication we had was on move-in day when I looked in her van and said “Um, I think you’re my roommate!” We’ve been inseparable ever since, taking day trips to Whole Foods and road trips to Charleston, with many more places left to visit on our bucket list. I still can’t believe I survived 4 years living with a Michigan fan (go bucks) who blends spinach in her smoothies (our only two disagreements ever).

Emma lived across the hall from us freshman year, and Jetta came along sophomore year. We were all fast friends who stayed friends and then joined up again senior year. Emma brings a spunkiness to life that I didn’t know I needed, but now I can’t live without. And Jetta brings lots of reasons for study breaks and trips to the freezer for her favorite ice cube snack, or “crunch water”.

They say you are who you hang out with, and if I’m half the woman these two are, then Berry did it’s job working on my heart.

The Hands

Berry is built on the philosophy of servant leadership (AKA the only type of leadership). I’ll just be honest, I’m a really bad servant leader. You can ask any individual in the picture above, and they can probably confirm that, because I just really like taking care of me! I mean, who doesn’t?

HOWEVER, I’m learning! I’m learning the impact of a leader taking on work for the good of the team; how a leader should never ask anything of her followers that she wouldn’t do herself. The golf team could also confirm this, as they were my guinea pigs for DiSC testing, Myers-Briggs personality assessing, and core values activities (shoutout to y’all for putting up with that).

My college golf team gave me a chance to learn from, lead, and lift others through service. This team is also probably ready to get rid of me after four years of nonstop enthusiasm and tone-deaf bus singing, but not so fast…

…because in the fall I’m headed back to Berry!

I’m under the impression that God knew exactly what I needed—He knew I wasn’t ready to say a virtual goodbye to the place that now lives in my head, my heart, and my hands. So he gave me a graduate assistantship in the Campbell School of Business. !!!

I am blessed beyond measure, for the four years that end today and the next two that start.

Now let me tell you about this cake!

This cake was one of the most challenging cakes I’ve ever made. Not because anything was terribly difficult to create, but because it’s a cake that should be shared with friends and family, should be the centerpiece of the cake table I’ve dreamt about, and should be celebrating one of the happiest milestones life has to offer.

But instead, all 14.4 pounds of it are sitting in my family’s fridge (and we can’t complain, because we get to have a piece of cake every day!). What makes this cake so special is the four years it took to make it: living under the Ford building skyline, living by the motto, competing for our institutional and athletic logos, and, of course, constantly yielding to the masses of deer across campus. Let’s be honest, they really run this place.

Friends, I’m thinking of you all as I’m digging into this cake. Happy graduation day, class of 2020!

Is This Real Life?

The Pitch. The PITCH! Where do I start?

Two of the most inspiring nights of my whole life have to do with Berry College’s Pitch Competition. Last year I competed as a junior, and the prize money significantly changed the course of Jorie Cakes.

This year, as a senior, I competed (virtually) with eight of Berry’s finest student entrepreneurs for cash prizes totaling $27,000. These students, who are now friends—they’re simply amazing!

These are all the finalists—from 3D printers to wedding veil makers to college football recruiters, the gang’s all here!

Throughout the semester most of us attended weekly workshops to prepare for the PITCH. Listening to ideas develop from simple concepts into 6-figure projections is something special. We left for spring break in February with clear direction to move forward with each of our business plans.

And then, COVID happened.

And we all had to pivot.

And for me, that meant pretty much starting from ground zero. My plan to create a physical bakery space for people to come together—yeah, that doesn’t really work when we all have to stay six feet apart.

Then, this Stay Celebrating campaign happened with the intention of raising brand awareness and ultimately giving people a reason to smile in such a hopeless time. The response was incredible! Not only was it fun to film, edit, and post baking videos, but people loved it! So there it was: the idea to take my kitchen online.

An online kitchen isn’t exactly a new concept. If I personally spend time on social media, it’s usually to watch videos of my baking heroes being all cute and bubbly and inviting on their mega-instagram-influencer platforms (if you need some inspo, check out I Am Baker and Cake By Courtney, they don’t disappoint!).

While watching these videos, however, recreating the beautiful cakes and pastries in their videos seems unattainable even for me, and I’m no novice in the kitchen. That’s where this idea of live virtual baking classes came from.

Just think, how many times have you watched a food video online, thought, “wow, I’m going to try that!” and then never did. No matter the barrier, you didn’t do it.

Well, have I got the solution for you! Rather than typing it all out on here, I’ll let you watch for yourself:

So, when will I see you in class? ;)

That video is a result of the ten-page business plan each finalist submitted. When I tell you I put hours of work into this, I really mean hours, which then turned into days, and then into weeks. I don’t think I’ve sat at my laptop for a longer amount of time than for preparing for this pitch…and I’m a fourth-year college student.

The work was worth it. Without a doubt.

But if you think I did all this on my own, you’re simply crazy; or, you just think I’m a genius. Which is flattering, but, sadly, inaccurate.

This leads me to the Thank-You portion of this blog post. To everyone who’s supported Jorie Cakes, you are the reason it’s still growing! As I said in a frantic Instagram story last night after the winners were announced,

“I just really can’t describe the feeling that comes with somebody believing in something that you put your heart and soul into.”

This is definitely my heart and soul. With that, I’d like to extend thank-you’s to the following people:

• My parents, who put up with me for the last 5 weeks as I became entirely consumed with work (but they got to taste-test in the process, so I don’t think it was that bad).

• My roommates, Emma and Eveline, who are my sounding boards for new ideas and my voices of reason during cupcake drama, because they really don’t have a choice since they live with me.

• Berry College, for its entrepreneurial mindset and limitless support of students’ dreams.

• The Campbell School of Business and the Center for Student Entrepreneurial and Enterprise Development, specifically Kevin Renshler, for answering many phone calls when I had no idea how to calculate market segmentations.

• The PITCH Donors, whose generosity led to nine students’ ideas turning into reality.

• The PITCH Judges, who’s own entrepreneurial spirits challenge me to think through every aspect of the business, and who see potential in Jorie Cakes—wow.

• All viewers, whose support is unmatched. You all—friends, neighbors, relatives, customers—are the most rewarding part of this whole business!

In the coming weeks, I’ll graduate from college in an end to a seemingly perfect four years of life. However, as one door closes, another one opens; and I’m taking this running start as a little nudge from the Lord that He’ll get me where I'm supposed to be. I have a feeling that place, wherever it is, will include a lot of cake. For that, I can’t help but look ahead with the utmost joy and excitement.

I’m looking forward to baking with you soon!

jorie

Southern Living: Villa Rica Edition

So, Redneck Yacht Club, huh? Welcome to our life in Georgia! 

Jorie, circa 2000, ready for lake life. Obviously.

Thirteen trips to-and-from Ohio later, we found our house on a tiny lake in West Georgia. It wasn’t that easy, however, because in those 13 trips we worked with four realtors in multiple cities and looked at a minimum of 85 houses. Yes, we have high standards, but we also wanted a lake house (sounds a lot more glamourous than it actually is…we’re not talking about the Taj Mahal here!), and lake houses in Georgia are all…unique, to say the least.

The reasoning for a lake house? My mom swore she wouldn’t become my dad’s hobby in retirement; in an effort to preserve our family, we all needed built-in activities and had been accustomed to life on water. And now that I’ve lived on water, there’s no turning back. Which is not ideal for my soon-to-be post-graduate budget. 

The Hodapp’s, June 2016. The happiest day of all of our lives, since my high school graduation meant I would FINALLY stop complaining about high school.

In a tiny little southern town called Villa Rica (for Spanish speakers, or even those who know a little bit about the language, in Georgia it’s not pronounced Vee-ya Ree-ca. It’s vil-la rick-uh. Villa Rica. You got it, now just add in some southern twang and slow your speed down, and you’d fit right in with the locals). After some nauseous driving through the backwoods of Georgia, we made our last trip as guests and would return as Georgia residents in just a few short months. 

In June of 2016, I’d just graduated high school (hallelujah), and was swamped with my last cake orders in Ohio before the move. This period of my life was pretty much a blur as graduation day had become the happiest day of my life up to this point. We spent that summer back and forth from Ohio moving our belongings 10 hours south to a neighborhood where we could count on zero hands the people we knew, and to a city where they drop a golden nugget on New Year’s Eve in the town square. Not kidding. 

This is truly what dreams are made of.

On June 21st, 2016, a few days before my college orientation, we closed on our new house. We planned to stay there for a few days until heading to Berry for SOAR, so we brought some essentials with us. You know, things like air mattresses, beach chairs, a folding table, clothes, golf clubs, my Kitchenaid mixer, and some snacks.

Our first dinner at our new house, June 2016. Leave it to the Italians to christen the kitchen with boxed spaghetti and jarred tomato sauce. The definition of gourmet.

Well, bringing kitchen utensils, for one, would have been a great idea. Curtains also would have been a good idea. And maybe lamps, shower supplies, and cleaning products would have all been good ideas. But no, we were ready to sit on the dock and drink room-temperature bottled water for the next few days. Priorities, right?

This was our pantry upon arrival. Stocked with nutrients. At least we wouldn’t totally starve.

My mom and I lived like nomads for an entire summer while my dad kept working in Ohio. I promise, we are two very intelligent women, but sometimes we just look at each other and shake our heads like, “what in the world were we thinking?!” 

Seriously, we had no curtains on the back of our house, which is 95% windows and faces a lake with lots of activity during all hours. 

We grocery-shopped at the local Walmart and bought a can of beans for tacos and couldn’t use it because we didn’t think to get a can opener. 

We lived out of a travel-size cooler because the house came without a refrigerator—and we didn’t even think to go buy one, fully knowing that we would eventually make that purchase so we could, you know, live there. So we continued eating non-refrigerated and non-canned food off and on for three months.

Somehow, we survived, and as soon as my dad made the trip down, he looked in a closet, found some curtains, and held them up to us and asked the simple question, “why didn’t you hang these up?” Listen people, there’s no manual on how to move into a new house. But my mom and I lived as though we were stranded with no knowledge of how to use Command Hooks to avoid waking up and going to bed according to the sun’s schedule, not to mention avoiding all back-lit windows when it got dark and people could see in. Needless to say, we make a great pair, but we really need my dad if we actually want to survive for any length of time with any sense of logic or rationality.

Jorie + Dad, summer 2018. It took us another 2 years to realize we could hang curtains in my room, too, not just the upstairs. We consider ourselves a family of geniuses.

That summer may have been a blur, but it’s one I wouldn’t trade for the world. Little did I know, my life in Villa Rica hadn’t even begun yet, and my college life in Rome would be unlike anything I could imagine in a sleepy southern berg.

That’s all for this time! Excuse me while I go sit on our deck—in a real chair, around a real table—and eat some pasta that was fixed with more than one communal utensil.

Y’all Come Back, Now!
jorie

**Please note, I poke fun at Villa Rica and its southern culture because I truly love it. A humble little spot in West Georgia has unsuspectingly become home, at least for the last three years and a few/many more to come. It’s also rumored that I myself have developed a bit of an accent…if you want to hear the thick of my southern draw, just make me mad, and you’ll get an earful, bless your heart!

Berry What?!

Berry College—like the fruit—is where I had my sights set. And *spoiler* it’s the name that’s about to be on my diploma this spring! 

Jorie, circa 1998, ready for an All-American lifestyle (read ‘til the end to see why this American flag picture is relevant!).

Remember that 27-minute phone call I had with the golf coach in the last post? I think you need to know the backstory, because it’s wild. That is all.

In the fall of 2015 (during my senior year of high school), Coach was driving the women’s team to their tournament in Destin, Florida, when my initial email came through on his phone. He miraculously had a player in the van from Ohio, so he showed her my email. She didn’t know me directly, but sent my name to her former teammate who was still in high school in Ohio. Turns out, we’d been paired together in a tournament that summer. Talk about a small world.

Jorie + Mom, 2020. We’d end up making thirteen (13) trips back and forth from Ohio to Georgia between college-shopping and home-buying. Needless to say, we make a pretty good travel pair. And we’re pretty good at finding random beaches to visit everywhere we go.

That kind of sounds like one of those “my sister’s-cousin’s-neighbor’s-great-granddaughter knows-a-guy-who-knows-a-guy” stories, and that’s actually not too far from the truth. The chances of the Berry College golf team having a player from Ohio were slim-to-none, but there she sat in the van, about to help me out tremendously.

After a decent recommendation from that teammate-of-a-teammate, the next week Coach Farrer drove 9 hours to watch me play a few holes in the state championships, and the next weekend I visited Berry for the first time with my mom.

At this point it really wasn’t that long ago that I thought Berry College was a tenant in a strip mall along I-75 in a forgotten middle-of-America zip code. As my first step on campus revealed, Berry was, in fact, not a strip mall, but…

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PLACE I’D EVER SEEN.

I mean, it has a castle. Come on.

Coach proceeded to spend 8 hours showing my mom and I around campus—the castle, the water wheel, mountain campus, the chapel, the gym, both golf courses and practice facilities, the dining hall, and a little bit of Rome community. There was nothing I didn’t love, and the thought of spending four years in this fairytale setting made it reallyyyy hard to finish out the next few months of high school, and in the dead of winter nonetheless.

Berry College. Need I say more? Except for the fact that yes, those are people canoeing in the reflection pond.

This time the 10-hour trip through farmland and cornfields back to Ohio didn’t seem as long. My mom and I left campus with a little more hope than the previous trips, and our heads spinning with the excitement of finding my home at Berry. We could see our years of planning finally coming together during a time when we really started to question everything we were giving up for a little sunshine and a few rounds of golf.

I regularly joke about my parents following me to college because—who does that?! But when you look at the situation as a whole, God aligned every part of the process that made the decision almost a no-brainer. I was an only child with parents nearing retirement, with no siblings, or even pets, to hold us in Ohio. The weather really was a driving factor, and once all of us got on board with the thought of southern living, everything seemed to fall into place, but not without a lot of prayer and too many setbacks to count. We may be a family of three, but I think we’re a family of three hoarders. Literally. U-Haul almost ran out of moving trucks for all our stuff (and that was after 26 SUV loads of stuff donated to the thrift store).

Please, no judgments.

You may be wondering what this all has to do with baking cakes. Well, without me, there are no cakes to be baked. So basically I’ve roped you into reading my whole life story. But if you’ve made it this far—congratulations, by the way—you’re probably not going to stop now. Especially when I tell you I ran a bakery out of a college dorm room (which I wouldn’t recommend for many reasons, but hey, you can’t re-write history).

In summary, I found where I wanted to go to school, was offered a spot on the golf team, and had narrowed our home-buying radius significantly to a three-hour circle around Mount Berry, Georgia. 

You’ll want to stay tuned to hear about the tiny little town we settled in. Let’s just say it may be the polar opposite of the lifestyle we’d grown accustomed to in Ohio. But there’s no doubt it encompasses the heart of southern hospitality.  It’s definitely not lacking in the pickup truck, cowboy boot, or American flag categories either (maybe my patriotic baby picture foreshadowed all this?).Before I publish the next part of the story, I encourage you to watch this music video of “Redneck Yacht Club” to get an idea of my family’s current living situation. Just know that it’s spot on, and we absolutely love it.

See y’all next time!

jorie

Bird Lady Adventures

So you probably think I graduated from high school, opened a bakery storefront in a quaint southern town, and am making a killer profit right about now.

Jorie & Grandpa, circa 2001, probably making the infamous Buckwheat Pancakes I so dearly despised as a 4-year-old (love you, grandpa, but why you made me eat buckwheat pancakes is beyond me).

Wrong. Very wrong. Though that would have been a dream come true, a lot of other factors were involved. Namely, remember those horrid winters I mentioned a while ago? Yeah, never living through one of those again, or at least for the next four years. Take the desire to move anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line and the advice from my parents to get a college degree because, “What if you’re thirty and never want to bake another cake again? Then what do you fall back on?”, and you have a very good point. Plus, I wanted to fulfill my goal to play college golf. 

So, college it was. 

Now this part of the story really isn’t made up. If you need an example of God’s handiwork in modern times, keep reading…

“Mom, Dad, I’m not staying in Ohio after I graduate. I’m going south. You can come visit me, or you can come with me, but I’m getting out of this place,” said twelve-year-old me. 

Yeah, right. What parents are going to listen to their only kid, let alone actually go along with her idea?

For the record: I’m keenly aware of the “Only-Child Syndrome.” It’s a real thing. And I praise God daily for giving me parents who worked tirelessly to make sure no one could tell I’m an only child (I still don’t like sharing, but at least I know how to do it!). 

As you may know, my parents listened to me. Clearly, I didn’t fully think through my ultimatum, because they actually came with me to college.

Okay, so maybe they didn’t actually follow me to college, but it makes for a great story. At one point it was suggested that my mom get a job in Rome. On campus. Like where I live. And occasionally she still threatens me with that proposal. Basically, I just gave the three of us an excuse to escape the eight months of snow that made us all miserable.

After we decided that we were all packing up and moving, we started counting down our move by winters— “only five more of these until we’re gone!”  And for those next five winters, we entertained ourselves on Zillow looking up houses anywhere from Alabama to North Carolina. 

Just to add in another major life event, I still had to find somewhere to go to college, and wherever that would be would decide (relatively) where we would buy a house. My search was rather slim, knowing I wanted a smaller, private Christian school where I had a shot at playing on the golf team. Shouldn’t be too difficult, I thought, which was a rather naive thought considering we had absolutely no idea where to look, or how to call coaches, or what schools even existed that fit all of my criteria. Oh, and throw in finding a house within three hours of that unknown school *and* my parents retiring and leaving the house my grandpa built…should be a piece of cake! 

Hyperventilating yet? Because I most definitely was.

Yeah, it was a piece of cake alright. One of those hockey-puck-grit-cakes I used to make. But, if there’s one thing I learned: never doubt God. He’s literally the only explanation for how all those moving parts worked—and worked successfully—to get us to Georgia.

Everyone asks, “how did you find Berry College from Dublin, Ohio?” Because in Dublin, Berry College sounded like one of those chain universities in a strip mall parking lot. So, here’s the answer to that question that requires a little imagination and a lot of faith:

My smart grandparents, who live half the year in Ohio and the colder half in Florida, happened to be on vacation in Pennsylvania. This isn’t relative to the story, but I think it should be known that they were on a bird-watching trip. If you know my golf-playing, grocery-store-owning, practical-minded grandpa, you know this probably wasn’t his idea (considering he hates birds), but he agreed to go anyway. Nonetheless, they were on a quest to find the Roseate Spoonbill, or something like that.

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Please enjoy the above gallery of pictures with my grandpa and I! Eight pictures don’t nearly do justice to the impact he’s had on my life, my golf game (still working on the three-putting thing), and my business.

In the lobby of their bed and breakfast, they met a lady who, to this day, we’re not entirely sure actually exists. She pulled a chair up to their breakfast table (there’s always one of those people at those kind of places) and started making conversation.

Because of my recent local celebrity baker status, the subject naturally turned to me (or maybe because I had visited 12 schools, liked none of them, and was frantically trying to find a place to go after graduation; but I like to think the conversation turned to me because I’m a celebrity). “Our granddaughter really wants to play college golf in the south, but she’s not having much luck finding a school,” they explained.

The frail, middle-aged woman urged them to pass along the name Berry College. It’s a school in Rome, Georgia, that is globally known for its nest of bald eagles.

Jorie & Coach, May 2018 at the DIII Women’s Golf National Championships. A sneak peek of why Berry is the best decision I ever made—or, rather, how Berry is the best decision ever made for me.

How fitting.

Berry College, you ask? Like the fruit? Yes, that one! My chances of playing college golf were quickly shrinking, so out of curiosity and a little desperation, I called the coach at Berry College and talked to him for 27 minutes on the phone. If you know me, you know that one phone call minute feels like 3 regular minutes, and actually enjoying a phone call is a modern-day miracle. I hung up, knowing I’d go there, without ever having seen the campus or the school’s website come up in any of my hundreds of Google searches. 

I’ll leave you wondering about where the bird lady adventures lead, and how this all connects to my passion for baking. I promise, it’ll all come together! But I’m telling you, there’s no other explanation for my travels besides the Good Lord Himself pulling it together. I mean, who would’ve thought I’d end up at Berry College—and love it, by the way!

Talk soon!
jorie

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

Yes, I'm a Cupcake Camp Dropout...

Well Hello, There!

Jorie, circa 1998. As you can tell, I’ve always had a deep love for cake.

If you’ve made it to this page, you must want to know the *real* reason I started Jorie Cakes. I can’t make it up, I really can’t. It’s my hope that you’ll find as much joy reading as I do writing—and enticing you with dreamy cake pictures—throughout my ten-years-and-counting cake story. 

Before we dive in to twelve-year-old Jorie, here are the bullet points of who I am now, though lacking details such as my love for trees and my strict diet comprised of the pairing of chocolate and peanut butter.

I am:

Jorie, circa September 2019, in the cake-baking off-season.

• A Dublin, Ohio, native who’s now found her way out of the brutal winters to sunny Atlanta, GA

• A 22-year-old senior at Berry College in Rome, GA (check it out!)

• A member of the Berry Women’s Golf Team, my other life passion, as you can see

• An only child (I’ll forgive you if you don’t want to read after this point, I know only children are the worst)

• A Christian, whose life is fully dependent on the grace I constantly receive from God (because I’m totally incapable of anything on my own, trust me)

• A self-proclaimed foodie & Food Network addict, with the occasional Say Yes to the Dress marathon

• An avid yogi, grocery store aficionado, and research junkie (there’s so much to learn!)

That’s me in a nutshell. Now we can get on to the story you really came here for. Sit back, flip on Food Network in the background, and scroll through the first installment of my story. Enjoy!

Summer, 2009:

I was twelve. A very mature twelve, but nonetheless a kid in search of a job. I have no idea what I so desperately wanted money for (Littlest Pet Shop? American Girl Dolls? A trip to the mall with my middle school friends?), but I found myself in search of an income. 

The logical solution? Babysitting *shivers*. Okay, it can’t be that bad. Oh, it was bad. At least the one time I tried it, it was bad. If I had any say-so in the matter, I would never again willingly find myself in charge of someone else’s kids, no matter how good the pay was. Scratch that off the list. Back to square one. What else can a twelve-year-old do? No babysitting, definitely no dog or cat sitting (tried that, too), and not old enough for a big-girl job. 

My first little cupcake army, circa 2011, NOT made at Cupcake Camp. *Also shot this photo on an iPod touch, because that’s what middle schoolers did.

Here we go—Cupcake Summer Camp! 

Sounded like a blast. And a blast it was—for all the wrong reasons. That summer, a friend invited me to cupcake camp at our local, successful bakery. Coming from a big Italian family, I’d always been a natural in the kitchen. My mom taught me how to use a butcher knife to cut my after-preschool apples at the age of four when I refused to use the inefficient plastic kiddy knives. 

Anyway, here we are at cupcake camp, the oldest campers in what seemed like a glorified daycare center in the back room of this bakery. Everything was going great. I cracked my singular egg into the bowl and returned to my seat. 

Then, the horror. 

The little girl next to me, who clearly lacked any sort of sanitary common sense or public decency, took her hands that were previously, um, in a place they shouldn’t have been, AND STUCK THEM IN THE BATTER. Gasp! Yes, she took her hands out of her drawers, put them in the batter, LICKED THEM, and PUT THEM BACK IN THE BATTER! 

*faints*

It’s true, and it’s a wonder I ever returned to the kitchen after that episode. As I, a self-proclaimed stress-cleaner and perpetual hand-washer, watched in sheer terror, I tightened my apron and willed myself to finish out the day. Upon returning home, my parents oohed and ahhed over my bakery case-worthy cupcakes but were stopped in their tracks when I yelled across the driveway, “DON’T EAT THOSE!” to my dad as he had a cupcake halfway to his mouth. I explained the tragedy that had ensued only hours earlier, and the cupcakes promptly found their new home in the garbage.

That was day one. I’d tell you about days 2-5, but I wasn’t there for those. I’m sure they were great.

I guess this makes me a Cupcake Camp dropout. You know, maybe babysitting wasn’t so bad after all…

Thanks for reading! Check back to see how I overcame the horrors of Cupcake Camp, or subscribe below to have it delivered straight to your inbox.

Cheers!
jorie