Sure! Why not. I've done a few. For younger kids though. Age 2 or 3. This is for a 6 year old, and probably slopping on a bit of whipped cream and some sliced berries for decoration was not going to make the grade.
So I went to Chef Google and asked for some assistance with Dolly Varden cake, and check out what crazy obsessive women come up with. I couldn't believe my eyes. This was a far sight more complex than my previous attempts. But I'm up for a challenge!
'What's you favourite colour?' I asked Birthday Girl, expecting the usual pink, or Princess Elsa blue or such.
'Red! Aaaannd...black.'
Ummm...great! I'll do a Goth theme. That hasn't been done. Or an Essendon supporter doll. Why not.
'No, no! I changed my mind. Rainbow! I love the rainbow.'
Rainbow. Hmm, that's a LOT of food colouring. The kids will go mental. But there must be a shortcut...
Ah, taste the rainbow! Skittles! Haha, too easy. On a white background. Of fondant. Stuck on with...buttercream frosting.
Now I am committed enough to actually own a Dolly Varden cake tin which lends shape to the skirt of the doll. It is deep and stands on a narrow base.
The cake takes longer to bake because of the depth, and the tin when full of batter is unstable because of the narrow base. So when I made the cake batter which I marbled with blue, green and pink (eww, won't do that again), you would think that I would remember this, but of course when I checked on the cake after a reasonable time, the centre was still runny and then the tin tipped over when I slid the tray back into the oven. So, cursing, I whipped it back out and used a spatula to scoop the batter back into the hollowed cake and hoped that the Cake Goddess would not be a bitch and it would be OK.
And so it was. Didn't do the marbling pattern any favours though.
That was Thursday night. The party was scheduled for Sunday, and I was planning on decorating the cake on Sunday morning. I had bought the ready made fondant. I had food colouring. I even had Cholov Yisroel butter and cream for the frosting. And I had the kosher Skittles.
Friday, 40 minutes before Shabbos I remembered that I didn't have a doll.
I dashed out to Coles down the street and snagged a Barbie for $10. I was back home in 20 minutes and hello Shabbos.
Saturday night I actually could not sleep because of the cake. I tossed and turned and fretted over patterns and rainbows and, befuddled and slightly anxious, I got up at 7.30 - on a Sunday, people- and addressed the task at hand.
So it turns out, that unlike with a cheap $2 plastic Barbie knock-off, the legs of a real Barbie do not pop out. Removing the legs, while seemingly cruel, allows one to stick the doll's legless torso into a small depression on top of the cake, i.e. scoop out a bit of cake and stick on Frankenbarbie with some frosting. No can do with Real Barbie. This time was for real. So I used a zucchini corer (I have no idea why I own such a thing, but I do) and reamed out the cake as neatly as a geologist's core sample. I stripped Barbie of her hooker clothes and heels, wrapped her in plastic from the waist down, (to keep her clean and protect her impressive thigh gap) and thrust her into the hole in the cake. And it turned out that Barbie, with her impossibly long and shapely legs, was taller than the cake.
Huh. Never had this problem with Frankenbarbie. I needed something to elevate the cake and accommodate her legs. Corks? No, should be edible. More cake? Oy, too late, no time.
I found some marshmallows and with a stroke of genius, constructed a marshmallow-buttercream plinth, and Voila! Cake up to the waist now. Sort of.
Then the buttercream frosting, made with REAL butter and REAL cream. Yes, ma'am, no pareve fake stuff here. Nosirree.
Slather that on, fill in all the gaps. AND NOW. The Fondant.
I had bought a block of this, kosher of course, and had never worked with it before. But I had to try (refer to images of dolly cakes). You knead it and roll it and then you can cut it like cookie dough. And it was like kneading a brick, but it did soften eventually. Since I know a thing or two, I rolled it between 2 sheets of baking paper so I didn't have to curse it for sticking to stuff, and then I cut out dozens of hearts with a cookie cutter and stuck them on to the frosting. The marshmallow plinth was hidden and I built the skirt. And I made a little bodice for Barbie, so no more nudity.
After admiring the bride-like creation, with plastic wrap veiling all over her face and hair, keeping it nice and clean, I set to work sticking Skittles in a sort of rainbow gradation of colour EXCEPT it turns out that kosher Skittles do not have red or blue. Plenty of green, yellow, orange and a murky violet, but no red or blue. Anyway, I toiled away with the Skittles and a little dab of frosting sticking them all on, one by one, until I ran out of them.
I had a scrap of fondant left so I dyed it red and made a sash with a BOW, noch, so at least there was red, then orange, yellow, green, NO BLUE (or indigo, goes without saying) and violet. Eh, what 6 year old would notice, I thought.
Then I freed Barbie from her scary-looking plastic head wrap and here she is.
It had taken 2 hours.
Then everyone came to set up, and when I mentioned, with some pride, the buttercream frosting with the REAL butter etc, Birthday Girl's mummy went a bit pale and told me that the menu included hot dogs. I must have missed the memo. After an initial frisson of panic, we decided that the cake would be served first, and then games etc and then hotdogs. Saved from Treyf.
And when it was time to cut the cake, you wouldn't believe it, one of the little girls informed me that it was not a rainbow, because there was NO BLUE. But, aha! On cutting the cake, the marbled blue green and pink interior (ew) made up for that. Take that, smart little kid.
And in 2 minutes she was eaten, down to the marshmallows. After stripping Barbie of her fondant bodice and Glad Wrap fetishwear, a quick wipe over with a cloth and on went her pink mini and hooker heels, and Barbie was ready to be fought over by Miss 6 and her feisty little sister, Princess 3.
After the party was over and the presents unwrapped, with some maternal prompting, Miss 6 thanked me and told me that I was the Best Booba.
I know. I have the apron to prove it. (Okay, different spelling, same sentiment.)
Kind of like drinking a 12 year old bottle of whiskey in one night.
ReplyDeleteThanks for your Boobaness