Dear Sherbet Cake


When there’s a sherbet cake around, meticulously personalized at our local Baskin Robbins, there’s a time and a place to include layers of colorful (Pink? Purple? Orange? Too many options…) sponge between frozen, fruity gobs of sweetness in between. But it is not this time. This time, when we order a sherbet cake, we mean a SHERBET cake.

That means, for us, no cake – straight to the good stuff! That sherbet mountain must have hiked over 15o millimeters, with clouds of rich, dark frosting to ice the peak of the sweet gem. Albeit, the black may have ruined the color scheme for the aggressively OCD, but not one would have probably been tempted away from a mouthful of this. A happy birthday was had, one way or another, by all!

With my fork as my sherpa on this sugar-land quest, bites one-through-twenty delivered me first into a daze, then into a dream. Perhaps I digress into hyperbole, but I remember my world shaded with pinks and sugar plums, almost like a Christmas dream. Without the cake, the density was all but lost, and the smooth creaminess of the sherbet guided be through a truly scrumptious dining experience.

But what do I remember more than the bright flavors? The sugar crash. And this is no critique of Baskin Robbins or sherbet-based confections. Fifteen minutes after inviting this in my belly, an hour nap was executed and achieved. I wasn’t kidding about the dream.

Happy Thursday, readers! What are some of your favorite cakes from the past? Comment below, and share your photos!

– Rory

The two great loves of my life are the movies and food; you can't take those away from me. Growing up in Oregon, where the hammering rain can't help but lead you inside great restaurants and venues, I've picked up a fine appreciation for these pieces of beauty and art, and how to give and get those along life's way. Through a life of pictures and dishes, my only wish is to be able to share with any and all my insights, misadventures, and fortunes.