I baked sponge cake and cupcakes last night, in preparation for the party. I had never made a sponge cake before, and it wasn't precisely what I expected, although I should have. It had six eggs in it, little flour, and no shortening or leavening. All the poof comes from the whipped egg whites.
"Sponge" is an apt name for it. If you can imagine the theoretical offspring of a kitchen sponge mated to cotton candy, you'd have this cake: sticky, overly-sweet, and rubbery. I cut it into three-inch hearts with the cookie cutters, put the hearts in a box lined with wax paper, and froze them. Tomorrow I shall top them with raspberries and whipped cream, which should help cut the sweet.
The cupcakes were made from a basic yellow cake recipe (yes, from scratch). The batter was fabulous, but I ate too much of it, on top of the noodly stroganoff I had for dinner, and this morning I feel bloated and slightly ill. Tea--where's my tea? Give me something astringent, for pity's sake.
Gonna whip up more sugar tonight. Not set on what to do with the cupcakes. I've got thirty-six of the little devils. Some of them are going to be tiramisu-flavored, just as soon as I figure out how to manage that. I want to cover some with white frosting and coconut. And of course it would be a shame to waste that box of bittersweet chocolate I bought. I can do three different flavors, a dozen each.
Then of course I must also peel and fill two dozen devilled eggs, make ham salad, wrap asparagus in bacon, and mix up a Waldorf salad. No biggie.
Nothing is ever simple in my world.