My cake vs. Martha's.
Yes, Martha's is prettier. Yes, the eggs on hers actually look like eggs, as opposed to something crapped out by a smurf. But, after spending FOUR HOURS on this cake on Saturday night, my cake holds a special place in my heart.
It wasn't the cake itself, which was simple to bake, or even the whipped ganache frosting, which came out perfect. That was hour one. It wasn't even the poured ganache that went over the top, going into hour two. It was those damn truffle eggs.
I must not be any kind of candy maker; maybe it has to be in your blood, like your mom eats a Wonka bar with a golden ticket inside when she's pregnant with you, and you're born being able to perfectly temper couverture, or something. Anyway, my truffle egg experience was messy, irritating, and took forever. By 10:30 at night, when I took the picture of the finished cake, I was not having any charitible thoughts about Ms. Stewart; hopped up on sugar, having had no dinner apart from the chocolate things I had had to sample throughout the night, I was tired, wired, and I wished I was a drinker.
The good news is, it tasted like sin on a plate, and I had fun cutting it on Sunday:
Between the five of us, half the cake is gone.
The other half is going to be applied directly to my thighs, with a piece saved for throwing at the tv the next time Martha comes on.
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