Cake Designer

Modern cake designs feel a bit like old traditions bumping into new ideas and deciding to have a giggle together. I’ve always loved that mix. One minute you’re looking at a clean, white tier that could have come straight from a vintage cookbook, then you blink and suddenly there’s neon buttercream splashed across it like a toddler went wild with a paint set. In a good way, obviously. I love being a London cake baker.

The funny thing is, cake design didn’t always look this bold. When I first started baking, most of what I saw in magazines was smooth fondant, royal icing piping, and those tiny sugar pearls that roll everywhere and make you question the choices that led you to kneel on the kitchen floor at midnight. Before that, my gran used to tell me about fruit cakes wrapped in marzipan that stood proudly at every celebration. According to her, the highlight was cutting into something that weighed more than a newborn child.

Over time, things shifted. People wanted more flavour, more colour, more personality. I remember the first time someone asked me for an ombré cake. I pretended to be calm, nodding like I had everything sorted, then later I stood in my kitchen layering shades of purple with the concentration of someone painting a tiny masterpiece. Buttercream the cat kept watching from the doorway like a judge on a baking show.

These days, modern cake design includes all sorts of fun bits—textured buttercream that looks like brushstrokes, wafer paper flowers that flutter if you breathe near them, and bold shapes that make guests tilt their heads. I’ve done tall tiers, short tiers, square tiers, and one cake that leaned just a smidge. I called it “artistic confidence.” The couple didn’t even notice, thankfully.

Methods have changed too. Back when I learned to stack cakes, my tutor poked dowels through the tiers with the seriousness of someone performing minor surgery. Now I keep a whole drawer full of tools just for building stable cakes. I still whisper “behave” at each tier before stacking, out of pure superstition. And smoothing buttercream these days feels like a small therapy session. Slow, steady swipes of a palette knife, the soft scent of sugar in the air, a cup of tea going cold nearby—honestly, it’s bliss.

Airbrushing came along and suddenly cakes started turning up in colours I never thought food could be. Then drip icing arrived and never left, though mine tends to run in its own unpredictable direction. I swear some drips have personalities. And don’t get me started on edible metallics. The first time I used gold leaf I accidentally sneezed and it floated through the kitchen like glitter at a disco.

I love how cake design keeps changing but still carries these little nods to the past. Every cake has echoes of someone’s memory—grandparents, family kitchens, childhood birthdays—mixed with new ideas that make it feel fresh. And each time I finish one, I catch myself stepping back, covered in flour and tiny bits of paper from sugar decorations, thinking about how wild and lovely it is that something so simple as cake keeps growing into new shapes without losing its charm.