Some joys in life come to one naturally: an athlete kicks their first soccer ball at age three, and a painter sees art and inspiration in every object and individual. However, for the first 13 years of my life, I was ignorantly unaware of the joy and bliss that the art of food would bring to me.
Tasked in the seventh grade with a science cooking experiment, I dedicated an entire afternoon to the mixing, baking, and decorating of a red velvet cake. Upon pulling the cake out of the oven, the mouth-watering aroma emanated through the kitchen. The aroma was much more inviting than the cake itself; it was dense from overmixing, dry from an inaccurate baking temperature, and resembled––being a red velvet––a circular brick. But my excitement was not dampened by this sad specimen of cake. I was, on the contrary, elated at my achievement. I had proven myself capable of creating something––upon first taste test––edible! This questionable creation, which I would end up devouring on my own within the next week, would spark the beginning of a hobby that I cherish to this day.
From then on, each bake I produced grew slowly more and more palatable. I presented my family with a steady supply of homemade items: cookies, waffles, and banana bread made up just a few of my glorious masterpieces. The latter was a frequent occurrence in my household, largely because it was one of the recipes that was pretty difficult to render inedible. Other recipes––ahem, cookies––still have yet to be perfected.
But it isn’t the fragrance or deliciousness of the final product that motivates me to bake. Instead, I appreciate the structure and simplicity of it all. Unlike cooking, where ingredients can be measured with the heart, baking requires a greater attention to detail that I find soothing. I am grateful for the focus and “flow” that baking can provide me, as well as the opportunity to bond and present my family with something that we can enjoy together. For me, taking time to bake is an act of self-care, one that calms the constant prattle of thoughts and channels restless energy to my hands, used for whisking, folding, and measuring.
Baking is my love language; I bake for those I love, and I delight in seeing my friends and family enjoy the foods that I create. Each homemade good is an opportunity for me to express my gratitude for the people I cherish the most. My exploration of food creation has also connected me with my culture, bonding me with my parents in an unexpected way. My mom enthusiastically suggests traditional Indonesian and Chinese recipes, from kueh lapis to baozis. Each time I make a traditional meal for my family, I treasure their expressions of delight and excitement at my baking.
I’ve experienced many successes and failures in baking, and it has taught me the value of trial and error. Fascinated by yeast fermentation, I cultivated my own sourdough starter: only to witness its demise after neglecting it for two weeks on a vacation. This failure only invigorated me to try again and arise with an even stronger and longer-lasting starter. I am grateful for the trial and error of baking, and the abundance of lessons and wisdom I have gained from it.
Baking has become an intrinsic part of my life, one that has brought me joy, peace, and contentment. I am privileged to have the time and resources to maintain such a hobby, and I am grateful for my family for encouraging me to pursue the things that spark joy in life.
