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Sharie Scott is an artist of the ephemeral.
Like Tibetan monks who craft intricate mandalas in the sand, she makes her confectionary creations not for eternity, but for the moment.
Her tiered wedding cakes look too good to eat. What has sent increasing numbers of brides her way, she says, is that they taste as good as they look.
In high season, the sign in front of Sweet Dreams Bakery in historic downtown Norcross usually says "Closed." Scott's inside, baking intricate towers of butter cream that, on average, weigh 70 pounds, feed 225 and cost around $775.
Each cake takes her about 10-15 hours to make. In a week, she goes through 30 dozen eggs, 36 pounds of butter, 50 pounds of cake flower and 100 pounds of powdered sugar. Her smallest so far was a $60 one-layer elopement cake; the largest, a grand six-tiered number with a 16-inch base that went for $1,500.
But her involvement with her creations ends when they leave her shop, where she's been since February 2004. After all the care she expends on each crumb, she can't bear to think about it.
"Believe me, I couldn't bear to watch it," she says, imagining the moment when bride and groom cut the cake as man and wife. "Oh, my heart. My brain knows they do it, but I don't have to watch."
Such are the challenges of making "sugar art."
She's a cornerstone of her weddings, though you won't find her lingering at them. Her craft is all behind the scenes. Brides-to-be come in and choose from photos of masterpieces past or possible. In the past six years, says Scott, who made cakes on the side until Sweet Dreams, their wishes have gotten ever more ornate, thanks to the Food Network and "Martha Stewart Weddings."
Chamblee account executive Krista Thompson was shopping last fall for someone to make her April wedding cake and stopped in at Scott's bakery for a tasting.
"Sharie made three separate cakes and any combination you like of cake and filling," she said. "Other bakeries, you'd get a sliver of cake and the icing separate so you have no idea of what the cakes taste like in their entirety. We go to her for everything now --- every family birthday we've had since we found her last fall."
After they pick out colors, flavors and decorative touches, the brides leave and Scott doesn't see them again. From that point on, she talks of them as if they and their sweet dream are one and the same.
"Shannon is lemon" she might say, or "Shannon's in the fridge." Of course she doesn't mean the bride, but the four-tiered lemon and raspberry cake that now bears her name. It was one of two Scott was working on last week. Both 16-layer cakes were square --- increasingly popular, she says, and with 16 corners, more challenging to make than a round one. One had a 16-inch base; the other's was 14.
Shannon was light ivory butter cream with yellow "embroidered" vinework; Lindsey was ivory too, but draped with shiny white fondant and bedecked with 18 tiny handmade sugar Calla lilies.
The hard part is what you don't see --- splitting and filling the layers, crumb-coating the first layer of frosting, assembling the tiers. The fun comes on "D-Day," her shorthand for decoration day. That's when she gets to practice her edible artistry, from piping a million perfect circles around each edge to playing with just how much goldenrod petal dust will look like a shimmer of pollen in each lily. Orders have increased so much she doubts she'll go back to storefront bakery service, though custom birthday cakes remain a cornerstone of her business.
When it's time for the cakes to make their final journey, her husband, Steve Scott --- master of organization and logistics --- takes over. These towering frosted constructions, most over two feet tall, are as delicate as an egg. Even minor bumps, he says, can be "like an earthquake" to one.
He maps out the route to the reception, careful to avoid any uneven roadways, sharp turns or hills --- or surprises.
So they get there safely. But all good cakes are made to be eaten.
"It's cool because it's so fleeting," she says. "I make it and then it's gone and then I get to make another. But hey, everybody has to have their medium. Mine's cake."
Copyright 2006 The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
