Cake-Pies and Songbirds

I am making a Cherpumple.

"What is a Cherpumple?" you ask.

Wrong question. The right question to be asking is "Why is a Cherpumple?"

I'll tell you why.

The Cherpumple is because society's "size-zero and washboard abs" version of beauty and social acceptance must be fought. The Cherpumple is because now and again we must break out of our health-conscious, death-by-heart-attack fearing mindset, and proclaim loudly to the world "I want diabetes!" The Cherpumple is the epitome of stunt food, in all its glory and deliciousness.

Of course, it is also an extreme food novelty, sure to earn me many quality high-fives at the celebration of Falliday. That is, if it will hold together.

You see, I am no ordinary chef. When I enter the kitchen, birds alight on the windowsill to watch the artist at work and sing inspiration while I create my masterpieces. The knives, dishes, and appliances all greet me with enthusiasm, proud to be a part of the great work about to be wrought by my hands. When I open the spice cabinet, I am met with a cacophony of desperate pleas, saying "pick me! pick me!" Truly, the kitchen is my home, and I am master of my domain.

But with such incredible skill comes a burdensome responsibility: I cannot follow any recipe exactly as it is written. It is my solemn duty to improve upon the recipes of the uninspired, to lift them out of mediocrity, and into the light of tastebud zen. Such is my calling, and therefore, in my decision to take on the great Cherpumple, I have sought to improve upon its already magnificent magnificence.

"How can it be?" you ask. "The arrogance! The gumption! How dare you?" you continue.

I dare, and the cries of pleasure that result from the fruits of my labor shall vindicate me.

The original recipe calls for a pumpkin pie inside of a spice cake, a cherry pie inside of a white cake, and an apple pie inside of a yellow cake. I wasn't terribly impressed with the synergy of the pie flavors, so for my Cherpumple (which likely can no longer be called a Cherpumple, as that name was derived from the names of the pies inside), I have a berry pie inside of a chocolate cake, a chocolate pie inside of a yellow cake, and a cherry pie inside of a confetti cake. Hence, I shall name mine The Cherrocleberry. Cherpumple, you have been one-upped.

However, there is one problem. You see, pies don't stand up to pressure as well as cakes. you take a pie, put something heavy on it, like two other pies sheathed in layers of cake and covered in frosting, and it tends to just squish and ooze all over the place. This is what the berry pie on the bottom layer has been demonstrating to me ever since I put on the second layer, which has the chocolate pie in it. The cherry, also susceptible (I'm guessing) to being squished, is going on top.

This has been a learning experience. The birds abandoned me about an hour ago, and the spices are cowering in fear behind the flour, but I will not be discouraged. The layers are all in the freezer, cooling off and hopefully firming up. Soon I will assemble the top layer and slather the Cherrocleberry in obnoxious amounts of cream cheese frosting, and all will be well in the world. I take heart in the fact that no one seems to be able to make it look pretty. In fact, another blogger described it as looking like "a forbidding white tower, the Soviet Bloc apartment building of cakes."

Mmm... diabetes never tasted so good.