Disclaimer: I did not have the foresight to take pictures during the events described below. Instead, visual interest has been added in the form of poorly drawn crayon images. Apologies in advance!

You guys know how, on Fridays, you just want to crank some tunes, pour yourself a drink and undertake a long, tedious baking project? Or, wait…is that not how the rest of you guys kick off the weekend?

Well, that’s what this fun lovin’ gal likes to do. However – as you’ve already guessed because you’re smarter than me – the tail-end of an exhausting week is not always the best time to undertake an intricate recipe. I always start strong. At 8 pm I might be singing along to show tunes as I jauntily sprinkle yeast over warm water. But things unravel as the evening wears on. By 2 am, I’m kneading bread, dead-eyed, wondering if purgatory is just me and a lump of dough, for eternity.

My most recent Friday night misadventure was a little over a week ago. My dear friend Tracey’s birthday party was on Saturday, and I volunteered to make the cake. I sent her some links to recipes I thought she would like. Her far-and-away favorite was this magnificent Frankenstein of a confection, but she had some reservations. She wrote to me:  “…it looks pretty complicated… too complicated, perhaps?”

I assured her it would be a piece of cake (hilarious pun intended) because I wasn’t going to make the doughnuts myself. I planned to just buy some and stick them on the cake. “I can’t think of anything simpler,” I said.

As it turns out, many things could be simpler. (To name a few: memorizing all the capitals of South America, growing your own tomatoes from seed, and training a cat to use a human toilet.) That’s what I discovered on Friday night. What follows is the true account of my ordeal

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8:00 pm: I roll up my flannel pajama sleeves and start with the cake batter. First step is to whip eggs until they are thick and pale yellow. As mix them, I wonder if I’m too good at baking. Like, maybe the birthday girl will be upset if everybody pays more attention to her super awesome cake than to her.

9:00 pm: I put the three cake layers in the oven and consider my decorating options. Earlier that day I purchased 50 assorted doughnut holes from Dunkin’ Doughnuts. (And I only ate three of them on the way home, which required harrowed-waif-in-a-Nicholas-Sparks-story levels of inner strength.) I figure the holes will stick to the cake best if they’re sliced in half. The problem is that only the top of a Dunkin’ Doughnut hole is all sexy and shiny with glaze. The bottom is naked and lumpy, unfit for Christian eyes. In my head I know that no one will fault me if I put the naked sides face-up on the cake. But in my soul I know I can’t. I picture the guests at Tracey’s party – uncomfortable, though they’re not sure why. Subconsciously, they avert their eyes from the cake covered in grotesque doughnut-hole butts.

9:15 pm: I decide to censor the doughnut hole bottoms with chocolate ganache. Downside: I have to admit to myself that I am the kind of woman who spends an hour on a Friday night decorating 50 45 already glazed Dunkin’ Doughnut holes. Upside: I get to add sprinkles!

10:00 pm: I take the cakes out of the oven. While they cool, I start the frosting. I’m trying Swiss meringue buttercream instead of the usual butter-and-powdered-sugar American buttercream. Because why would I do something the easy way when there’s a much more complicated test of skill and stamina available? Er, I mean, because it’s supposed to be more delicious (I don’t need to prove anything to anyone!).

10:30 pm: I combine egg whites and sugar in a double boiler, and whisk until they reach 160° F. I transfer this mixture to a large bowl and whip with an electric beater. I am supposed to whip until the egg whites hold stiff peaks. I marvel at how cool egg whites are and wait for the magic to happen.

10:45 pm: Egg whites are the worst and they can suck it! So can every smug engaged couple with Kitchen Aid standing mixers on their Bed Bath and Beyond registries! And society, which does not award Kitchen Aid-requesting opportunities to bad husband-finders. So I’m stuck with this spinster-model hand mixer, testing the limits of my weak lady arm muscles. Society can suck it most of all!

10:50 pm: I wipe the sweat from my brow and declare the egg whites as peaky as they’re going to get. I mix in the flavoring and the butter, cube by cube. When all is incorporated, it has the consistency of whipped wet paint, but it tastes delicious. I hope it sets up in the fridge overnight.

11:00 pm: I flip the cakes out of their pans. They have the thin, heavy density of manhole covers. I break a piece off to examine the interior crumb. It’s about as tender as chewed gum. I look back over the recipe, suspecting something has gone wrong. I included the correct amounts of cocoa powder, flour, baking powder…I freeze. I forgot to add the baking powder.

11:15 pm: I sink to the kitchen floor, head in hands. Of all the ways I could ruin this cake, this is the most embarrassing. This is a mistake that a second-grader with even below average math and reading skills would have avoided.

I wish I could call someone to talk me through this, but most of my cooking crisis counselors are sleeping. Tracey the birthday girl is probably still awake. I know if I call her though, she will tell me to just to bring the brick-cake to her party because she is a kind, understanding, non-crazy person. But – and maybe this is the sleep deprivation talking. Or the little bit of wine in my system. Or the whole lot of sugar… – I don’t want a non-crazy person to make sense at me right now. Sense will only hold me back from cake greatness! So I rise, knowing what I must do.

11:30 pm: I start over on a second cake. Whipping eggs until they’re thick and pale yellow, I think about every poor choice I’ve ever made.

11:45 pm: I have almost all the ingredients to remake the cake – except cocoa powder and bittersweet chocolate. My mother raised me to be a problem solver, so I scavenge my kitchen for substitutes. I find: an ounce of fancy chocolate chips, an ounce of Aldi brand chocolate chips turning chalky white in the back corner of my cupboard, a half-eaten 80% cocoa Fair Trade chocolate bar, and a whole box of unsweetened baking chocolate. They all go in the bowl. Mom’s gonna be so proud.

1:30 am: The cakes come out of the oven. They are beautiful – lofty and tender. I leave them on the table to cool and go to brush my teeth. My haggard reflection in the mirror startles me. There are dark circles under my eyes and my pale face is smudged with cocoa powder – I look like I’ve just been released from the cake mines. I go to bed without washing it off.

8:00 am: My alarm sounds. My mixer-arm feels like it’s been doing Tae Bo in Jell-O, but overall I feel optimistic. I stumble into the kitchen and pull the frosting out of the fridge. It’s a little thicker – still not stiff enough to adhere doughnuts to cake though. I resolve to start the frosting over. Being a pastry perfectionist is like, kind of my thing.

8:05 am: Actually, my real thing is instantly questioning every decision I make. So I pour last night’s frosting into a bowl, add a little more butter, and try re-whipping it.

8:15 am: A Swiss meringue miracle! Some spectacular chemical change has taken place, and the frosting is now thick and glossy.

8:30am: I assemble the cake. I almost don’t have enough frosting for the sides, but it doesn’t matter because the doughnuts cover up the thin spots. I pile a few whole doughnut holes on top as a final artistic flourish.

9:00 am My kitchen – covered in cocoa spray and batter spatters – looks like the site of a grizzly gingerbread family murder. The cake though, is beautiful.

Epilogue: It seemed to impress at the party. Accepting compliments about my cooking has never been one of my strengths though. When party guests told me the cake was beautiful/delicious, part of me knew the correct response was, “why thank you!” But the mouth part of me said, “It should be! I made it twice.”

With all said and done, I’m not sorry about the long, trying journey. I ended up with a magnificent dessert, which is what Tracey deserved. I’d do it again. That either makes me a good friend, or a person who is bad at learning lessons.

If you’re interested in the recipes, head on to the next page. Just…if you decide to make it on a Friday night, you’re on your own.

Eh, who am I kidding. If you decide to make it on a Friday night, give me a call. I’ll be up until at least 1 am. There’s a ravioli recipe I want to try!