Red Velvet Blues

I regret not having any photographs from the tale I'm about to tell, but Amy was too busy throwing baking pans around the kitchen; noise which hopefully muffled any 4-letter words spewing from (our) spinning head like a busted fire hydrant in summertime.

So you'll have to visualize, just as I imagined my Red Velvet cake pops resembling this photo, blatently swiped from what I thought read 'Basics with Balls' - but it's actually 'Basics with Bails', here's Bailey's website to give full credit for her beautiful results.

Last fall I attempted, twice, to make Pumpkin Spice Cake Balls.  Cake Balls are simply crumbled up baked cake; mix in some frosting to bind; roll into balls; and coat with Almond Bark, Melting Wafers or Chocolate.  Simple, huh? The first time took me 6 hours and I made quite a mess, but they tasted really good and my co-workers enjoyed them.

So in honor of someone who was supposed to be leaving but has been delayed, I decided to try again, but with a different flavor.  I took a chocolate-dipping class in March and have since purchased a Wilton melting pot to make the process easier, so I was confident of better results.  I'd already picked up a box of Duncan Hines Red Velvet cake mix, a can of Pillsbury Cream Cheese frosting and a package of Almond Bark for whenever the mood struck.  I was prepared.

That was my first mistake - hubris.  I decided to be smart and make the pops in installments, so after finishing up Monday's morning shift I grabbed my stuff and ran to the staff-kitchen in the Clubhouse, for the spacious counters and dependable oven (RV ovens don't usually keep an even temperature).

Manager Rhonda, an excellent cook, was preparing a batch of breakfast burritos to freeze.  She always makes cooking look easy, but has long given up trying to encourage me to eat healthy or properly, as have most people I know.

It was fun - I felt like I was back in Mom's kitchen, trying to prepare something exotic.  Rhonda's younger than me but vastly more capable, so I hoped some of her talent spilled over onto me, like I did Mom.

Pulling the hand mixer out of the drawer, I tried not to appear too novice-like because I was surprised the beaters were already attached.  I brought my own eggs, oil, Pam and parchment paper.  Rhonda pointed me towards the mixing bowls and I was off and running.

"Why are you making these now," she asked.

"For the staff meeting Wednesday.  I'll even bring my ukulele," since I promised Bill E. I'd learn Tiptoe Through the Tulips.

The cake came out beautifully, if rather plain-looking in the rectangular pan.  I read somewhere to cut off the crusty outer edges before crumbling, so after it properly cooled I did so, presenting sweet-tooth co-worker Dave, second shift now, with a small bowl of scraps and a dollop of thick frosting on top.  He seemed pleased when he came back to ask if I roll them together to make the balls; Yes, after it's cooled and crumbled.

The Pumpkin Spice balls called for an entire can of frosting but someone recommending only using 3/4 or so.  I'd read so many different versions of the same recipe I was confused, so decided to only add 1/2 to 2/3 of the can, better to be on the safe side.

(Wearing gloves), I squished the crumbled cake with the frosting - then added another scoop of frosting; second mistake.  Uh-oh...is that the right consistency? I covered the Tupperware and stuck it in the fridge, hoping overnight would make it good and solid and magically fix anything I did wrong.

Next morning I was looking forward to Part 2, but something was wrong; I couldn't put my finger on it.  Mom always said (sic) when something tastes good, it's made with love; so I knew with my untenable mood the outcome might not be pretty.  Amy (my alter-ego, for newcomers) still threatens occasionally despite my success in better handling those moods and thoughts.

Lori was working the desk and we chit-chatted a bit, since we only work together once a week.  There's always catching-up to do.  Anyway, she went back to work and I turned my attention to prepping the workspace. (Photo: work area/kitchen off of main reception)

At some point a repeat guest came in to work on her sewing projects, aprons or something, which she's been doing for years while traveling with her husband, supplementing their retirement.  I'd seen her many times before but never engaged in small talk.

I must digress here to explain:  for three years my managers, who are terrific, have been diligently encouraging me to improve my Hospitality skills, bah, humbug.  And while all would agree I have improved significantly, there's still room for improvement.  I've told them many times, I don't talk to people unless I have to, and here was just such a challenge.

"Good morning," I finally spoke; and unfortunately the seamstress was off and running.  Never stopped talking and I really wasn't in the mood, but inside my head Amy and I were raging over our potential behavior.  I won by occasionally making a pleasant comment, almost killed me, and which only encouraged her to keep going.  I have no one to blame but myself, I scolded, while repeating inside my head, I can do this.  I knew it was a test, and I was determined to prevail.

During all this 'raging' I'm rolling my balls; except they're not sticking together.  I'm rolling and rolling while trying not to be distracted by the ongoing chatter; should I add more frosting?  I ran to the computer, a great excuse to flee the chatter if only for a moment, and Googled why are my cake balls are falling apart.

Numerous possible reasons, like why your plant is dying; but I believe 'too much frosting' was the culprit.  THAT's when I started looking up directions for Red Velvet vs other flavored pops, and discovered people only add 1/4 of the can of frosting to Red Velvet, DAMMIT! Who thought there'd be a difference?

Chatter chatter chatter.  God, this is what my ex's (except Tino) used to complain about me.  I put the balls back in the fridge and 1/2 hour later tried re-rolling them, with no better success.  I gently placed them on the parchment, hoping they'd stay together (like last fall's balls, left).

Chatter chatter. At least the Almosd Bark was melting nicely in the pot, glad I bought it, but boy, it's thick.  I began dipping the sticks in the bark then partially in to the cake balls.  First one ok; second split in half.  It was like that for most of the rest, but again, I hoped pinching the batter together and chilling them again would do the trick.

"What kind of sticks are those?"  Popsicle, go away.

What's aggravating you, girl?!  Worrying about that package you mailed to an Etsy buyer?  You over-packed, relax.  Dwelling on something which you can do nothing about?  It's not your problem anyway.  What else?

"Ooooh...what're you making?" another resident wandered in and stuck his nose...

"Cake pops, for the staff meeting," lest you think you're getting any.

He thought it was fondue and left.  Chatter resumed.  I took the 'stuck' balls out of the fridge and, concentrating on my task, plunged the first one into some of the melted bark I'd transferred to a small glass dish.  And where it promptly fell apart.

No, no!  I tried to scoop it out, but it only disintegrated more.  I tried spooning the bark over another pop, which summarily fell off the stick.  Dripping bark was making a mess as I wildly looked around for a MIRACLE.

"Oooh, I've had that kind of disaster."  I knew she was trying to be supportive but she was within arm's reach.

OMG, stand clear - she's about to blow!  I remained silent but my face was surely red, and the woman slinked away.

The bark was hardening - my gravy ladle, used to spoon out the melted bark, was stuck to the spoon rest and wasn't budging.

THAT'S IT!  ENOUGH!  Amy came out with a vengence, and that's when the first batch was summarily dumped into the trash, the pan tossed into the stainless sink.  _____!  It was nasty cleaning up the melted bark.  Should I give it another try?  ____-__!  The second pan's balls hit the trash.  I washed everything up, pans making quite a racket from the sink to the dish drain to the cupboard.  As I left the kitchen I did mumble, "Have a nice day."

"What a waste of time, effort AND money," I  declared while stomping through the empty reception area towards the door.  Lori, taken by surprise but not really, since she knows me, said something to the effect, "We can still eat it - it'll be good."  Bless her heart.

"You're welcome to dig it out of the trash," my parting crack.  I went home, shut the door, closed the blinds and re-grouped.  I've had cooking catastrophes before - Why was I so affected this time?  After several hours it hit me:

"I know what it is!  I chose the wrong flavor," for here's my annoyance with Red Velvel cakes:

Down in Puerto Rico, 2001 or so, the Captain's mother baked and mailed him a Red Velvet Cake for his birthday; except it must have sat on the Post Office loading dock for some time, for by the time it was delivered it was a melted mess.  Still tasted good, but I could only imagine what it looked like when freshly prepared.  That's when Cap stated the following:

"My mother invented Red Velvet Cake."  Never heard of it.  "There are other recipes, but she's the one who created it, but never got the credit."  Really?

Even though I didn't know the cake, I knew Cap's penchant for twisting reality to suit his stories, just like Trump.  I didn't dare question - he was a total Momma's Boy.  I still recall Lea and Sally bursting out laughing when I told that story years later; but to me, Red Velvet Cakes have become a thorn every time I see one or even read the words.  Of course I was out of sorts.

Making Lemonade

So on Wednesday I went to the staff meeting empty handed, briefly describing my cake-pop fiasco and explaining my hands hurt from squeezing and rolling cake balls so I couldn't play the Uke.  Just as well - Bill E. couldn't make the meeting anyway.

I've since overcome my trauma, helped in part by blogging, and decided not to throw in the apron.  I will overcome this culinary challenge; I've learned what NOT to do; only next time it'll be Lemon!  (And I'll bake after-hours.)

P.S.  If you're curious, here's a piece on Red Velvet Origins.