It started with the pink food coloring.
I wasn’t even planning to bake. I’d opened the drawer for a tea towel—one of the good ones, the one with the burn mark shaped like Maine—and the bottle just rolled out on its side like it had something to say. That color, stupid and loud and sticky in memory, reminded me of Mae’s fourth birthday. The one with the rain, the crooked banner, the cake we had to scrape off the bottom of the oven because I forgot the parchment. This recipe showed up the way glitter does after a party—late and a little accusatory.
I didn’t want to do it. But I did.
What The Original Looked Like
Her Highness calls it a Funfetti Cake. But that’s underselling the drama.
Three layers. Vanilla-sour cream batter, snowflake white. Rainbow polka dots folded in like confetti nobody swept up. There’s ganache that drips pink, like birthday candle wax on a church table. Two buttercreams—Italian and American. Because why choose subtlety when you could make a point?
Martha’s version is flawless. Each swirl piped like a vow she intends to keep. Even the crumb coat looks editorial. It’s sugar in its final form: serene, glossy, untouchable.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t use candy melts. I used the last white chocolate bar from Christmas, the one that tasted faintly like the pine needles it had been hiding near.
And I mixed the American and Italian buttercreams together, which might be illegal in her kitchen. Mine looked like soft wallpaper paste—pink marbled with pale forgiveness.
Also—I didn’t weigh the sprinkles. I panicked and dumped half a jar. Some clumped. Some sank. Some melted like they were never meant to be there in the first place.
Like me, that afternoon.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The flour clouded up before the music even started.
I forgot to preheat the oven until the batter was in the pan, so I just let it sit there on the counter—waiting, thick and hopeful. Mae walked in mid-buttercream, took one look at the pink streaks and said, “Oh god, not that shade again.” She remembers the cake too.
The Italian meringue took forever. My thermometer fogged over. I guessed at soft ball stage. Maybe it was. Maybe not. I dropped a little on the counter and tapped it with my finger. It stuck. I stirred anyway.
When I layered the cakes, one tilted. The middle one. Always the middle one. It’s the layer that carries the weight and gets none of the glory. I tried to even it with frosting. It slumped like a tired parent by 5 p.m.
I piped in a spiral. Then crossed it. Then scraped it all off and smeared it with a spoon. Called it rustic. Called it mine.
I tapped the dent in the Dutch oven while I waited for the ganache to cool. Not even part of the recipe—I just do that sometimes. Like knocking on old wood for a memory.
A Few Things I Learned
Don’t chase symmetry in a cake like this. It doesn’t want it.
The sprinkles bleed if you overmix. Let them float.
Pink ganache looks ridiculous until it hits chilled buttercream. Then it sings.
And frosting covers more sins than apologies ever will.
What I Did With the Extras
Mae picked the tallest slice and ate it cold with her fingers while standing in the doorway. I scraped the rest into a container and forgot about it until two days later when I needed a bite of something that didn’t talk back.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. but maybe only when I’m feeling dramatic enough to deserve it.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The kitchen smelled like vanilla and sugar and rain on hot pavement.
The burn mark on the towel darkened.
The cake stood crooked but proud.
I didn’t fix it.
If you’re in the mood for something quieter, I made a soft ricotta cake once that didn’t demand applause. just quiet forks and closed eyes.
FAQs
yeah, but the frosting gets a little weird. wrap the layers before you frost if you’re thinking ahead. i wasn’t.
depends who you are. Mae said it was “aggressively joyful.” i took that as a yes.
No. but if you want that swirly drama and texture contrast, it’s worth the chaos. otherwise just pick one. probably not the pink if you’re low on patience.
the long rainbow ones. not the little hard ones that chip a tooth. you want the kind that melt slightly and make little tie-dye streaks in the batter. trust me.
sure, but watch the bake time—it’ll need longer. and stack with care. mine leaned like it had opinions.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Funfetti Cake
Description
Soft, full of noise, and better when you don’t try too hard.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the batter: sifted the flour, sugar, baking soda, and powder into the green bowl with the chip on the rim. added salt. it looked like snow. in another bowl, whisked the egg whites, butter (soft, not soft enough), vanilla, sour cream, milk. it never fully came together—just… almost. poured the wet into the dry. folded until it looked like frosting for someone tired. added the sprinkles last. too many. of course i did.
- Bake the cake: buttered three pans like i meant it. lined with parchment cut by guesswork. poured the batter. tapped the pans once, just to hear the sound. into the oven—late. 170°C. maybe a little hotter. they rose uneven. one cracked. smelled like birthdays i forgot to plan.
- Make the meringue: egg whites into the mixer. added cream of tartar. pinch of salt. beat until soft peaks that barely stood up. meanwhile—sugar and water in a pan, watched until it boiled like a bad mood. guessed the temp. poured it into the whites in a slow hiss. mixer ran like it was angry. cooled eventually. added butter, one slab at a time. too fast. looked broken. kept beating. came back to life. added vanilla. didn’t taste it—just trusted.
- Make the buttercream (american chaos): beat butter until it slouched. added sugar by handfuls, not cups. it snowed. milk. vanilla. food coloring. pink like a dollhouse funeral. folded in sprinkles like confessions. mixed the white and pink with the back of a spoon until it looked marbled and a little smug.
- Make the ganache: white chocolate from the back of the cupboard. melted it with cream in the microwave—too long. it seized. stirred like it owed me money. added food coloring. now it looked like candy gone soft in a glovebox. let it cool. barely.
- Assemble the cake: layers out. one tilted like a tired thought. buttercream between each, thick in places, missing in others. crumb coat went on messy. chilled it anyway. then the real coat—italian, forgiving. smoothed it with a palette knife i bent last year. piped rosettes that looked better from a distance. ganache drizzle down the sides. too much in one spot. didn’t care.
- Finish and pretend it was intentional: added a skirt of sprinkles. more frosting on top. Mae laughed. called it “chaotic neutral cake.”