Right Time for a Sweet Reprieve

Before the hour is up, a pig’s leg--molded of marzipan, the hue of ham--will shoot from Sheri Tovar’s hands to the floor, and her only option will be to grab the errant piece and plop it on her cake. Before the hour is up, Laura Palomino’s hands will begin to shake while she swirls roses in perfect bloom in front of dozens of onlookers. Before the hour is up, the way a cake is positioned on a doily (not too close to the lacy white edges, please) suddenly turns into a matter of consequence--not to mention a nod to civility.

In the timed cake-decorating competition at the Los Angeles County Fair, six amateur bakers transform their plain two-layer cakes into belles of the ball that turn the heads of dozens of fairgoers, most of whom wear on their shirts American flag stickers that were distributed at admission gates. For an hour, at least, the “Live Cake Decorating Challenge” provides an escape from the specter of war into a storybook land of white chocolate orchids and haystacks made of upside-down ice cream cones and butter cream frosting.

On Sept. 11, the fair shut down for the day, following the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Since then, no fair events or contests have been canceled, a fair spokeswoman said, and it is unclear whether attendance has dropped at the Pomona fairgrounds. (Attendance figures will not be released until the 17-day fair closes Sunday.) On Friday, the day of the cake decorating contest, the fair donated all gate proceeds, or $250,000, to the American Red Cross Disaster Relief Fund.

Six of the seven people who had signed up in advance for the contest show up. Palomino, 40, a mother of two young children, had debated whether she should back out. “You feel, ‘Should I do this? Should I be there?’ You have that guilty feeling, but at the same time, we can’t let [terrorists] stop what we’re doing. We have to show them they can’t stop us.”

And who knows when they might get another chance? The on-the-spot cake decorating contest is the fair’s first, fair officials say, although a few contestants recall competing in such an event in the late ‘80s. In any case, the event is the only one in the baked-goods category that requires participants to compete in front of a crowd. (Participants in other competitions bake or decorate at home and then deliver their entries for judging.)

Imagine the agony of a cutoff time for a home baker with the passion of Candy Wertanen, 52, who is unemployed and lives with her mother in San Dimas. When Wertanen made her sister’s wedding cake, she ended up having to remove two layers so the bride-and-groom figurines wouldn’t scrape the ceiling.

Imagine the pressure of turning out a blue-ribbon creation in a packed exhibit hall warmed by body heat that softens butter cream icing. On this evening, Stacy Corrales is ready to go with chilled icing and a cheering section of four. Corrales once dreamed of opening a bakery with her sister, but these days the 46-year-old state benefits administrator decorates cakes for fun. “You give a gift of time and yourself to family and friends,” she says. “Sometimes, in these busy times, that’s the best thing you can give.”

Outside the exhibit hall, the temperature is in the low 90s. The hall is air-conditioned, but Tovar--the molder of marzipan--is moved to recall an unfortunate heat-related incident at a previous fair. The thick gingerbread walls of her red barn creation collapsed in a heap atop the oyster-cracker roof--after judging, thankfully. Tonight, potential temperature woes are right up there with the fear of missteps, which is why more than one contestant clutches a list of step-by-step procedures or a cake decorating book.

“Oh, my God, I’m so nervous!” says Palomino, who has perfected her rose-swirling technique, the type who stays up late to crush graham crackers into “sand” for her son’s beach-themed birthday cake. Palomino, who works as a saleswoman for HMO plans, did a trial run at home with two cakes and has 13 filled pastry bags ready to go. She rubs her hands together, chews gum and chatters with the expression and speed of a cheerleader.

Of the six worktables set up next to a booth selling baked potatoes, Palomino’s is closest to an aisle of heavy foot traffic. In the next hour, onlookers will stop, four or five dozen at a time, in front of the cordoned-off work area. At first, about 50 people perch in cushioned chairs set up for observers, including Palomino’s 73-year-old mother, a retired baker.

Just before 7 p.m., emcee and pastry chef George Geary reviews the rules for the audience, explaining that only the cakes are made in advance. “Whenis-hegoingtosaystart?” Palomino asks, and finally, he does.

Ten minutes into the competition, the chairs empty, and everyone crowds against the chain-link rope, including Palomino’s petite mother. A white-haired man with a diamond-like earring stud watches Palomino pipe pink roses and a cascade of tiny white flowers onto a mint-green frosted cake. “Very artistic,” he says. He and his companion don’t move for half an hour.

By 7:15 p.m., Tovar is still rolling marzipan, while her friends snap pictures. She is the only contestant with nothing on her cake, which prompts Geary to give an abbreviated play-by-play: “The first contestant here has some green-leaf action going on, the second one is making a wedding cake, the third one is playing with Play-Doh. ... “ Tovar glares at him.

Meanwhile, a boorish sandy-haired man in a T-shirt plants himself in front of Palomino. “Need a taste tester?” he shouts, waving a plastic fork. “I’ll volunteer.” Palomino is preoccupied with a pastry bag blockage and doesn’t look up. Grabbing a straight pin, she clears the gunk.

The clock is ticking.

Corrales, who was so worried about the exhibit hall temperature, rubs her chilled pastry bags between her hands. The icing is too stiff, and she must warm it up so she can finish making her leaf patterns.

At 7:30 p.m., Palomino’s mother, who is standing a few feet away, warns, “Half an hour, Laura.” The hall is so loud, that Palomino mishears and thinks her mother says, “One more flower, Laura.” Palomino’s hands shake, even though she holds her breath to steady herself as she details flowers. “It’s not the time,” she says of what rattles her. “It’s everyone looking.” Specks of white butter cream smudge her arms up to her elbows.

By 7:40 p.m., Palomino has a final task. First, on a paper towel, she tests the flow of a pastry tube filled with sunny yellow icing. Writing on cakes make her nervous. Once, she left out the ‘h’ in “birthday” and had to scrape off the icing and begin again. This time, though, the clock is ticking, and she can’t afford a mistake.

In the waning moments, Tovar makes do with the pig leg she dropped. (No one eats any of the cakes, which are on display in locked cases through Sunday in the Creative Expressions building.) Her design features a blue-ribbon festooned pig on a winding black road and the words, “Life’s a journey.” Corrales finally gets her pastry bags to work. Palomino writes “God Bless America” without messing up.

The countdown is loud and insistent. “One minute,” Geary advises. By the time he counts off “three, two, one,” only one contestant still is at work, her white swirly border unfinished.

The six cakes are lovely, each a backdrop for the play of imagination. Each of the contestants is the picture of grace, sighing at everyone’s cakes and sharing tips. Two judges whisper and scrawl notes on a clipboard.

Thirty minutes later, Geary announces the winners, who get ribbons along with gift certificates and other prizes from the Village Kitchen Shoppe in Glendora. Palomino comes in third, while Tovar takes second place. Moreno Valley resident Lynn Davis, 45, is awarded first place for an antique white cake decorated with intricate swoops of vines and leaf (“I’m a professional homemaker”). Finally, smiles all around.

In the flash of cameras, in the warmth of applause, the effect is an ephemeral shift toward solid ground, a realization that grown-ups still pin county fair ribbons on their shirts and that a pretty cake is not yet inconsequential.