Cake Dreams

This past month I've been a volunteer several fondant cake classes at Orson Gygi. Christina Miller taught the class and did a great job. Although I was just the "help", I learned a lot and now am very excited about making and decorating cakes. This has been a strange departure from my normal range of baking. I have always been more of a pie & pastry enthusiast than a cake one, but decorating cakes has allowed me to tap into any creative artistry that has more or less lain dormant all these years.

I now lay in bed at night and think of cake. I think of excuses to make them, and how to decorate them. I dream of fondant. I peruse the classifieds for used bakery equipment. I think I'm making my family crazy.

This is a cake I did for my sister-in-law Jerrea's parents' 50th wedding anniversary. It was my first "tiered" cake and was a lot of fun to do.

This cake was for Jessica's birthday. She served an LDS mission to Hong Kong, so I wanted to do something Chinese-themed.

This was a last minute birthday cake for Emily. I had a leftover tier from another cake I dried to replicate her cute wedding colors of green and pink.

This was my very first fondant cake made for my sister Laura's birthday. Go Utes!

A Place for Pears

Two 36-lb cases of Bartlett pears layed out on my basement floor to ripen: $18Extra lids, rings, and lemon juice: $8
Washing and sanitizing 33 quart jars: 2 hours of hard work for my dishwasher

About 8 gallons of light sugar syrup: $2

Peeling, coring, slicing 72 pounds of pears: 6 hours

Finishing 33 quarts of pears: priceless

Spending the afternoon doing pears with my mom: even more priceless
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"I'm coming over to help you do pears," my mom said, upon hearing me worry outloud that I wouldn't get to the over 70 lbs of rapidly ripening pears on my basement floor. I knew she'd come over. She loves to do pears.

There is a quietness to doing pears. The silence of peeling the fruit as its juice runs down your wrists. The whisper of a spash as the pears get a lemon juice bath. There is no frantic chopping as for salsa, no whine of the food processor, no vinegary sharpness in the air from chili sauce. Just the warm mellow smell of the pears, the simmer of the sugar syrup and the the distant click of a sealing jar.

My mother's hands can no longer quilt, and her mind struggles with the complications of daily life. Standing is hard. Walking is harder. But we can sit at my table and do pears, her tremoring hand now firm and steady as the peels fall from the fruit.