The Great Sister Birthday Bake-Off

Is there a winner when all three Opera Cakes are a little off-key?

On New Year’s Eve, my sister Laura and I decided to make a fancy cake. We chose a Swedish Princess Cake (Prinsesstårta, if you want to get technical), which didn’t look entirely delicious or even edible, but seemed challenging and a little ridiculous when we saw it on The Great British Baking Show. Here’s theirs on the left, and ours on the right:

Not identical, but not bad for beginners. We even made the marzipan, which left me only slightly less proud than having written a novel.

But there was one problem: our other sister, Linda, who lives in Pittsburgh, had terrible FOMO. So we decided that for her birthday, we would choose an even more challenging recipe, also from the Great British Baking Show, and each make it, in our own kitchens, but together on zoom.

We selected Paul Hollywood’s Opera Cake, the recipe for which has 27 steps and requires making a jaconde, which is apparently not a jaunty French parlor dance but a light almond sponge; a chocolate ganache; a French mocha buttercream (the instructions for which call for heating sugar syrup to the “softball stage” — what?); and a chocolate glaze. We’d forgo the tempered chocolate curly-cue decorations. Piece of cake, right? Did I mention that none of us are bakers?

My sisters set a convivial mood from the get-go, organizing a conference call to translate the ingredients into American English (double cream = heavy cream, caster sugar = super fine sugar, etc.) and to together determine what kind of cake frame we needed and what size acetate sheets.

Here I must confess that all of this teamwork made me bristle; wasn’t this going to be a competition? How was I going to win if we were going to be so damned helpful to one another? Maybe it’s a youngest child thing, but clearly my older sisters are not as cut-throat as I am. They’re like those kind souls on the Baking Show who don’t think twice about helping the frantic baker on their right get that last spun-sugar web onto her floating island before the clock runs out. So un-American.

At two p.m. on Sunday, I had my mise en place en place and was ready to go.

The first step — a coffee syrup — was easy. We put it to chill. Next was the chocolate ganache, which sounds mysterious and sophisticated (maybe to justify high prices at le patisserie?) but is nothing but heated cream poured over dark chocolate chips with some butter tossed in to give it a high gloss. Trés belle, oui?

Then the jaconde, also not complicated, unless of course you read too fast, which I tend to do, and don’t realize that you’re not supposed to put all the sugar in with the almond flour, but save some for the whipped egg whites. Throwing out the batch and starting my jaconde again at least left me feeling like a bonafide contestant on the baking show.

Got my sponge in the oven only a little behind my sisters and was feeling pretty good, until I realized I’d not only not gently folded in the melted butter, I hadn’t put the butter in at all. But neither had Linda, which lifted my spirits. We decided it didn’t matter; our jaconde would be the low-fat version. Problem solved.

Side note: My 89-year-old mother, watching all of this on Zoom, was both riveted and impressed, though in full disclosure she’s never watched a real cooking show and hasn’t baked anything since 1972 when she made us a big batch of “health food cookies,” chocolate chip cookies that included a handful each of oatmeal and wheat germ. We, in turn, were impressed that she’d managed to log onto zoom and could both see us and hear us.

Next up, the French buttercream. Heating sugar syrup to precisely 241 degrees Fahrenheit was a challenge for me because I realized that my ancient candy thermometer didn’t work and a challenge for Linda because she couldn’t find hers. I googled “softball stage” and learned that you’ve reached it when your sugar syrup forms into malleable balls when a bit is dropped into cold water. This worked for me but not for Linda, which left her with runny buttercream and a do-over. Mine was grand, but oh my god, so much butter. Don’t ever look it up; trust me, you don’t want to know.

Now, the assembly. Cutting the sponge cake into three pieces for each layer was easy. The rest, not so much. However much we lack baking skills, we have even greater deficiency in mechanics. How to make a collapsible baking frame not collapse? Scotch tape helped, sort of. How to line it with sheets of acetate? Greasing the frame helped, sort of. But once I had the frame positioned in the right size, how did I get a layer of sponge coated in chocolate go chocolate-side down into the frame? Fortunately, my son Johnny arrived from Brooklyn in time for his youthful mind to see the obvious: put the sponge cake down and then put the frame on top of it. Genius. After that, the layering was easy. Cake, coffee syrup, ganache, chill, buttercream, repeat. Twice.

Here’s my framed cake, ready to chill. Beside it is the little Operetta Cake that Johnny constructed from scraps. Pardon the aged baking sheet.

By the time our cakes were in the fridge to set, we had been at this for more than three hours and were exhausted. We limped through the final step, making and applying a chocolate glaze, which required the weirdest ingredient of all, liquid glucose.

Thankfully, we had some zoom drop-ins to revive us: my son Joe in San Francisco, Laura’s son Stephen in Melbourne, Australia, and her son Ben, from a car somewhere in Arkansas. They and Johnny were witnesses to the unveilings, the results of which impressed the three sisters more than the four sons. I had thought my layers were pretty even, but soon realized it was like that challenge when you march in place with your eyes closed and are 100 percent confident that you’re staying in the same spot until you open your eyes and realize you’ve traveled clear across the room. See what I mean?

Laura’s layers, it pains me to admit, look better.

Linda didn’t take a photograph of hers, but I choose to believe that none of us got the layering-evenly gene and that her Opera Cake looked as wonky as ours. We all agreed our cakes were tasty, though maybe the ganache was overpowering the mocha buttercream. My husband tried some and gave me a handshake, but he’s no Paul Hollywood. The only time he ever made a cake from scratch was for my birthday when we lived in Moscow and a friend who saw the result said, “Is that a meat loaf?”

Laura was happier with the results than I was, which I think was more about me than our cakes. I loved the challenge, but I’m not sure I’m a fancy cake person. I’m more likely to swoon over a crème brûlée, an apple tarte tartin, or even a brownie.

Linda’s guests declared her cake scrumptious, but she was disappointed in her buttercream. And ever the eldest sister, she’s determined to get it right. She just texted me that she’s going to tackle the recipe again today. She needs the distraction and plans to give some to all her friends who need cheering up. As well she should. Because whatever the question, the answer may well be cake. Even if it doesn’t look anything like this: