Ye olde Stout Wedding Cake: a practice in inefficiency

It all started when a very good friend asked me to make her wedding cake this winter. Let's be frank: my cakes often taste good. They NEVER look good. I demurely told her, "I would be delighted!" (Ok, actually my jaw dropped and I demanded, "are you out of your mind?!"). My brain screamed, "Dear GOD, I am going to die." Painful visions of drawn-out royal icing torture and buttercream-boarding flashed before my eyes. "Death by offset spatula." I was going to be THAT girl. The failed Martha Stewart suicide victim. And have you seen Ms. Stewart? Epic fail.

I started digging through my cake recipes to put together the tiers. So many parameters to consider--cake flour or all-purpose? What gluten content is ideal? Sour cream, oil, or butter for the fat? Chocolate, white, fruitcake? Why won't my oven turn on? It's a difficult process.

Then the bride, whom I love dearly and willingly risk an ignoble pastry death for, calls me.

"The top layer, the one we get to keep--can you put beer in it?"

Oh shit.

"Do you want me to cut a hole in it and fill it with beer?"

"Hahaha. No, I mean, can it be beer flavored?"

Now, I probably cook with beer more than I drink it. (I'm in grad school. This is a serious statement.) I have put beer in cookies, brownies, chicken stock, chili, pastas, bbq sauce, and hundreds of marinades. Never in cake. Why? The perfect cake precariously rests on a precise balance of leavening, four, and wet ingredients. The idea of putting beer--a leavening wet ingredient with high acidity--is terrifying.

When in doubt, copy someone else. I stole a recipe from Bon Appetit that featured chocolate stout. A fellow grad student also wanted to bake, so she came over and we got cracking.

First: my kitchen is partially covered in baby powder. This is because a very crazy species of harmless ant is attacking the freezer. Why? No clue. They must have some sort of Napoleon/Hitler complex and like invading cold climates. The outside of the thing is spotless, and the ants that teleport inside (it's sealed. How do they get inside?!) die. Baby powder deters the critters. So, it looks like a cocaine New Year's party in the kitchen. And we haven't even started.

Second: this cake is a calorie whore. Beer, cocoa, and butter are melted. This is whisked into egg and sour cream before dry ingredients are sifted in. Holy triple-bypass, batman!

Third: The resulting cake was chocolaty, moist, smelled terrific, and didn't taste like beer AT ALL. Infuriating!

Fourth: the white chocolate ganache smelt like a warzone of sugar and fat. That is what white chocolate ganache is. Brilliantly, I poured a cup of beer in the pan. Magically, the stuff didn't seize up. (Beer is acidic. This is bad for a fat emulsion that doesn't even like added water). But now it had to reduce. Damnit. Much stirring later, it was ready to be cooled. But our freezer was currently the Leningrad of the Kamikaze Eskimo-wannabe ants.

Shit.

Every ice tray was emptied into a big bowl and showered in salt. The pot of icing was carefully submerged, and I stirred and prayed. The Pastry Gods were merciful; it stiffened into a caramel-colored hybrid frosting. The cake was smothered in it, and now had enough calories to kill on first sight. It looked like a dilapidated trailer-park cake. For fat people. I should totally make wedding cakes for a living.

Conclusion: It is easy to make tasty beer frosting. It is harder to make tasty beer-cake. But never fear. I have a plan, and when the perfect cake emerges, you will know.

Until then leave me alone. I have to clean up a kitchen that resembles what would happen if you tried to make crack and cupcakes simultaneously.

And that is how a nut-job-grad-student-baker extraordinaire prepares for her first wedding cake.

Stout Frosting:

2 c white chocolate
1 c heavy cream
1 c stout (used young's double chocolate)

Heat beer until reduced in half. Add cream and bring to a simmer. Add chocolate, let stand two min. Stir until smooth, chill until frosting consistency. Wear your fat pants the next day.