People often ask how I started out making fake display food.   They seem fascinated by not only the process but the why and how and to what end?  
To be honest, it's a bit of a blur.  I made my very first fake cup cake about two years' ago, a terribly clumsy affair, a bit cockeyed and not very inspirational, but with dogged determination to hone my art, I experimented, failed, experimented, cried, swore a lot while doubting my sanity, exulted at my first gorgeous Knickerbocker Glory, gnashed my teeth over the ruinous price of resin, but perservered.  Bit by bit and creation by creation I finally got it right.   My range of clients is varied, from theatres and photographers to people who just want a piece of food art for their kitchen.

So how do I do it?  

Creating a highly realistic piece of fake food really is an art.   One has to have a grasp of textures, colours, pore over endless photos and dig out vintage images of what American Diner Sundaes used to look like.   My sundaes are about realism but also nostalgia.   There's no recreation of cheap squirty cream on my pieces, no sirree!   My toppings are double whipped, unctuous and slightly tinged to the exact shade of rich Jersey cream.   My cherries are luscious with no plastic seams.  And my sauces have evolved just the right amount of gleam without being too shiny.   

Half of my working life is involved in the creation of moulds.   I make my own.  It's time consuming and expensive but gives me the best results.   And oh, the disasters!   

But making fake food is, for me, not only a challenge and taps into my creativity, but it's fun.  All the more so when out of a raft of trauma and mishaps, something wonderful emerges.