The result: a square cake with long cuts that made it resemble nine separate cubes, airbrushed to a midnight finish with cocoa-butter spray and held together by glossy rivulets of red mirror glaze. A crosscut of the cake on Instagram reveals strata of Emmanuel sponge, airy as a madeleine and studded with red currants; jammy raspberry confit; and jelly and mousse spiked with sparkling wine — the drama of the exterior giving way to something of a giggle, an effervescent memory. Such contrast is key to Kasko’s work. A cake might outwardly be inspired by Miura-ori, an origami fold involving a zigzag series of parallelograms, adapted in the 1970s by a Japanese astrophysicist for the deployment of solar panels on space satellites. But inside is all delicacy and lightness.

Kasko now sells her molds online and travels the world giving master classes. Still, few of her more than 600,000 Instagram followers have had a chance to actually taste her cakes. I was lucky to try one last June at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, a Versailles-style three-tier glory with ornate geometric extrusions in mousse that disappeared, shockingly, under my fork. Kasko had confined herself to ingredients only available in 18th-century France, and suffused the yielding layers with sour cherry and rose. It tasted like summer, fugitive and bright.

This spring, a group of investors will open a pastry shop featuring Kasko’s recipes and designs in Doha, Qatar, with others to come in Moscow and Boston. Kasko never expected to become a recognized pastry chef; at the Met, she told me, “I was a housewife.” But recently, she shifted operations to a separate studio so that her family — soon to include a second child, due in May — no longer has to struggle to sleep while the Ultimaker churns out a template. Such 3-D printing can take as long as four days, provided that nothing goes wrong. “Sometimes there’s lightning,” Kasko said. “Something you just move a bit, and you have to start all over.”