Let Them Eat Cake

She would be pleased to know that people eat cake on her birthday, I think, but she isn’t around for me to ask anymore. I made cake anyway. If you want to have what I’m having, you are going to need my Chocolate Mess recipe.

1 Devil’s Food cake box mix and the ingredients it says you need
1 glass wine or Diet Dr Pepper (you may choose your own vice)
1 cup chocolate chips (any variety. Heck, they don’t even have to be chocolate)
1 cup chocolate chips

Fudge Sauce
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa
1 tsp vanilla
1 pinch salt
3 tbsp milk

1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1 large container double cream

2 1/2 sleeves oreos (chocolate cream if you’ve got ’em)

You might start with a Devil’s Food cake mix from a box or you might use your Granny’s secret recipe – I don’t know what you do in your kitchen… But let me give a gentle word of advice: box mix. Ok, that was two words. What I mean is that Granny’s secret recipe would be wasted underneath the gobs of stuff you are about to throw at it; save it for a day that it can stand in the spotlight.

Prepare Devil’s Food cake as directed on the box (or use Granny’ recipe for the cake if you insist. I don’t like telling you what to do). Now sip your wine, or your whatever, every time you have the urge to lick the bowl. Or the beaters. Or the spoon. Put. it. down. Before you pour the cake in the pan, stir in 1/2 to 1 cup of chocolate chips.

While the cake is in the oven, heat the sweetened condensed milk on the stove, but do not boil. Stir in the cocoa until well combined; stir in the salt. Let cool a minute or two (sip wine) before adding the vanilla. Add milk one tablespoon at a time until the consistency is runny enough to be considered fudge-y syrup.

As soon as you have the cake on a cooling rack (but straight from the oven), use a spatula or knife to make long, deep slits in the cake without cutting all the way through it. Your instincts will fight against you, but this is critical. Take a swig of wine; really, it’s ok.

Pour the warm hot fudge-y syrup-y stuff on top of the just-out-of-the-oven cake. Sprinkle the chocolate chips evenly on top of that. Have a sip of wine and tell your OCD to go sit in the corner. ‘Sprinkle evenly’ is a general term; there is NO density calculation required.

Let them get to know each other and do that thing that cakes and sauce do together. Try not to stare – where is your wine? Let the cake cool completely after its ‘activities’.

Crush the oreos. Food processor, hammer.. Again, I am not here to judge what you do in your kitchen.

Whip the double cream with a whisk attachment until slightly thick. Add cocoa and sugar in spoonfuls as you continue to whip until soft peaks form. Whip a tiny bit longer. Wine or whisk, put one in your mouth. Whatev.

Spread the chocolate whipped cream on the COOLED cake. Spread crushed oreos on top, refridgerate at least a few hours. (If you have leftover chocolate chips, chuck them on top. Or eat them. No one will know.) Serve.

I am told that red wine goes nicely with chocolate.

It’s a Piece of Cake to Bake a Pretty Cake

Sky news claims that 7 million London based workers stayed home from work yesterday and another 2 million played hooky today due to the worst snowy weather London has seen in 18 years.  Drew managed to walk to work this morning.  Living close to work has its benefits and its drawbacks…  I must say, though, I would have gone if I had the choice myself.  The grass is always greener on the other side.

Tomorrow, when I’ve gone through all the job vacancies relevant to my skills and work history, I think I’ll start calling bakeries.  My sister asked why I couldn’t make a living making cupcakes or decorating cakes.  It was funny at first; I am cake snob who knows I don’t have any real marketable skill in this area.  But then I gave it another moment in my head.  Why couldn’t I work for a bakery anyway?  Someone has to assist the decorator right?!  Someone bakes the cakes, takes the orders, and cleans up at night.  Why couldn’t that be me?  Brilliant.  You’ll be fat when you leave London.