Well! Aren’t YOU in luck. No longer do you have to wonder, “Is it possible to assemble a 9-tier wedding cake on an old ping pong table?”!
The first thing you’re going to need is ample working surface, which means various christmas ornaments, paper towel reserves, and miscellaneous lightbulbs will have to occupy the other half of the ping pong table.
Next you’ll need some stick-to-it-ive-ness and some bravery. You can’t be meek when dealing with wedding cakes. You have to grab a big knife and level them. You’ll be tempted to kinda file away at them and be all delicate. Don’t do that. Just cut. SAW, if you must. Cut it like a huge slab of meat. Don’t be gentle. Show that cake who’s boss around these parts.
You’re also going to need a partner-in-crime. This here is Marge. She’s responsible for all the cakes being baked while others of us existed in San Francisco (a cool 3000 miles from the wedding location). Here Marge shows us how to cut dowels with a table saw. Because you COULD buy the short dowels from Michaels, all pre-cut and whatnot, but they are like 35 cents more expensive, so, fuck THAT, Michaels. Honestly, we tough bitches will do it ourselves.
Next you’re going to need an empty auxiliary apartment, because your mother is occupying the kitchen with the finer workings of your sister’s engagement party (and Katrina Are You Making A Wedding Cake Again Even Though You Promised Me Last Time You Wouldn’t Do That To My Kitchen Again Honestly You Take After Your Father So Much). So the fridge is stocked with, like, 80 servings of quinoa salads and doesn’t have the casual capacity for an unannounced wedding cake production. Luckily the upstairs apartment is temporarily vacated, though the steep stairs that lead up to the apartment give you pause, as the cake eventually will have to leave and make it to the venue. But you’re not scared. You are master of this good ship wedding cake. You commandeer the apartment with a huge tub full of icing and get to it. Spackle the shit out of that wedding cake, my friend. Don’t let that cake breathe one breath of late-August New York air. Suffocate it.
Then you are going to have to get real particular. This might not be your natural constitution (holler at me Type Bs!), but you can fake it, because you spent like 12 hours hand-molding flowers out of sugarpaste and packing them delicately into your carry-on luggage and fretting about petals falling throughout the 6-hour flight and god help you if you don’t place them in an appealing way! This involves a lot of delicateness, which makes you feel uneasy, but you persevere. You are a flower placing champion.
Then you are going to glue everything into place with some more icing and admire your handiwork. Put some twirly twigs in there! Get crazy, wedding-cake-in-the-basement-and-then-the-attic maker! Put some weird baubles on there! You’re on top of your game! It’s a fucking celebration!!!
Then you are going to delicately–DELICATELY–slide the wedding cake into the rearranged refrigerator, taking care not to smudge it with that carton of vegetable broth. You are going to close that refrigerator door–DELICATELY–and go to bed because it is late, my friend! And you have to wake up early and deliver this baby, doctor!!!
Then in the morning you are going to teeter down those stairs and have several small heart attacks as Marge sits in the back of the car with the cake and you begrudgingly drive the speed limit for the seemingly-endless 15 miles to the reception hall. And you’ve just assembled a wedding cake in your basement/attic apartment! You did! Now go cut a rug. And yes, you’ve earned that third martini.