I See a Theme of Doll Cakes

Cakes by Fhoa 2007 Hmong Cake Decorating Challenge

Ms. Muse argued with me all day. She wanted me to compete, since I was asked to compete as a last minute challenger for a new Cake Challenge. I had less then 24 hours to prepare and I finally agreed, because I didn’t know if an opportunity like this would ever present itself to me again in my future. I had to thank Ms. Muse for her wisdom.

Four things I learned about my sugar art are:
* I don’t work well under pressure and make a lot more mistakes then normal.
* I don’t like to be rushed through tasks and prefer to be slow and methodical.
* I prefer to take time in between tasks to reflect and make changes.
* My health doesn’t allow me to push so hard without consequences.
* I do not like working in buttercream at all.

What I learned about Cake Challenges in general:
* TV camera’s in your face can make you physically ill.
* Looking up and seeing tons of people watching you can make you physically ill.
* If you look up and see that one challenger is finished at the half way point you probably will become physically ill.

But I got my terrible monstrosity to the table in one piece, came in second, regardless of being physically ill - had a lot of fun, and met new people that I really enjoyed.

Up North

Ms. Muse and I spent the afternoon playing catch with a squooshie ball in the lake with my pup, Georgie Girl. Exhausted from swimming and playing in the water all day we were sunning ourselves on the dock and sharing new secrets while nibbling on some yummy candy bars.

“I’ve had a blast today,” Ms. Muse exclaimed. “Why haven’t we come to the lake more often this summer,” she asked? Not waiting for my reply she stated matter-of-factly, “We will have to do this again before autumn comes.”

I nodded in agreement.

That evening we sat out by the campfire sitting on logs for chairs hugging our knees to keep our balance. All of a sudden, Ms. Muse squeals in delight as she has discovered a firefly. She grabs my hand as we jump up scrounging for an empty mayonnaise jar. Quickly we were out and about chasing the whimsical little glowing wee things.

Later, tucked into our bunk beds, Ms. Muse admiring the firefly we caught, whispered to me about the events of the day and the last thing I remember was hearing her voice tell me how the lake was so lovely. And I dreamed beautiful idyllic scenes.

A Day at the Fair

"Oh come on," she whined. "You know you'll enjoy yourself," stated Ms. Muse.
"No!" I replied adamantly. I could not bear the height I thought. Ms. Muse wanted me to join her on the Ferris wheel, but heights always bothered me and I wasn't winning our argument either. She wouldn't be happy until we were both up in the air. We would both squeal, Ms. Muse out of delight and me out of panic.

When we finally touched ground again, my stomach was doing a topsy-turvy dance. Ms. Muse picked this particular moment to introduce her next agenda item. "Let's get some mini-donuts. Mmm doesn't that sound yummy," she laughed as she grabbed my hand and started dragging me down the avenue. I groaned in disapproval.

A moment later we bumped into Fairborne, the Minnesota State Fair mascot. I introduced Ms. Muse to him and pretty soon we were all chumming about the Midway. He was a lovely tourist guide and showed us numerous venues to try a new food item on a stick or a crazy ride. For a gopher he certainly could hold his own with the bossy Ms. Muse.

Twilight fell and the Midway was aglow with multicolored lights, which began popping on one by one. Ms. Muse exclaimed what a great day we had and proclaimed our next sugar piece we created would be dedicated to our new found friend, Fairborne. That gopher had truly left his mark.

A Muse for Another Artist

Come, said the Muse,
Sing me a song no poet yet has chanted,
Sing me the Universal.

In this broad Earth of ours,
Amid the measureless grossness and the slag,
Enclosed and sage within its central heart,
Nestles the seed Perfection.

By every life a share, or more or less,
None born but it is born — conceal’d or unconceal’d, the seed it waiting.

From Song of the Universal published in Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman (1819–1892).