high-bar baking

I always forget that potlucks are a cutthroat game. Like a prom, perhaps, or a pageant.  A childhood game of kickball. You have to be picked.

So you can’t bring an ugly cake to a potluck. Not one at which you don’t have street cred. There are rooms in this town where I could bring a cake so ugly its mother would never love it, but it wouldn’t matter. My track record speaks for itself. But when you’re the new game in town, a rhubarb cake isn’t going to cut it. Certainly not one that looks like this one. 

Namely, wet. 

I pulled it out of the oven only a few minutes before I had to run out of the house. The instructions say to serve warm, so I didn’t think it would be a problem. It sat in my cake carrier in my car for the drive and during church, and then I went out for it afterwards. The case was fogged and dripping with condensation; you can imagine how that went. 

It’s fine. It’s a good cake. I’ll spare you the “let the free market decide what alcohol to stock in liquor stores, Utah!” rant and just note that I subbed Aperol for the called-for creme de cassis, because it’s what I had. After much debate, mind you. Bestie and I did a long-distance phone call in which she tried to communicate what the original tasted like over the phone and I tried to match its elements to something I had in my pantry. A comedy, my life is. 

It doesn’t win any beauty contests, though. Sitting next to a Texas Sheet Cake on the potluck table, it didn’t stand a chance. The only slice taken out of it was mine. 

It’s alright. I divvied it up at a brunch today, and my friends took it home. All’s well that ends well. Just a good note to self. Sometimes, you just have to play the game. Sometimes, sexiness…

….takes the cake. 

Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.