What baking can do
Sunday, October 27, 2019
Sometimes, when I'm sad, I like to bake. Not any particular thing: I don't have any secret recipes for heart-mending sponge, or disappointment-soothing scones (as lovely as they sound). I just feel a drive to go in the kitchen, find a recipe and work. Perhaps an hour later the room will be filled with a reassuring fug of sweet air, I'll be flushed and pulling stray bits of pastry from my hair. And I might just feel a bit better. Baking is a balm for sadness because it simplifies things, reducing the world to the lip of the mixing bowl. The smell of bubbling golden syrup or the touch of smooth dough can't eliminate life's problems, but they can dull the ache and blur the edges.
Nonetheless, I’m still slightly uncomfortable with my urge to bake, because it’s a huge female cliché: woman feels sad, then obsessively bakes biscuits. I picture one of those Warhol-esque, fifties housewives, complete with red lipstick and a gingham apron: “Oh darling I’m at a loss, so I’ve baked four sponges, six trays of biscuits and a cherry pie.” I don’t like the idea that I’m choosing a comfort option that society thinks is good or "natural" for a woman. Not that I imagine I’d feel better by doing something more "manly", like spontaneously digging up the garden and building a fence or something. (And surely there are men out there who choose to bake when they’re blue?) But when storm clouds are gathering and I'm fed up with life, peace can briefly be found in the kitchen, so I'm happy to put aside my prejudices and tie-up the frilly apron.
Recently, while staring at the oven door or wiping up the surfaces, I’ve been trying to pin down why baking is such a soothing task. Time is one reason: you can cook in a rush and get good results, but baking under pressure seldom ends well, it requires time and space. And given the freneticism of modern life, taking 10 minutes to slowly stir molten chocolate into whipped butter can only feel like a treat. I believe this is because of the unnecessary-ness of baking. Most of us are lucky enough not to need to make bread to avoid starvation. We do it because we can, and we want to. No one needs to eat double chocolate brownies or spiced cinnamon swirls. The choice to do so is entirely voluntary, in simple search of pleasure—pleasure found in the baking, the eating or both.
Baking is therapeutic physically, too. Kneading is not for the limp-wristed: it takes gumption and determination, and the exertion is in itself a relief (try pounding a lump of bread dough while imagining it’s the face of an ex—highly satisfying). Not to mention the actual “feeling” of whatever it is you’re making: there’s a childlike joy in (literally) rolling up your sleeves and sticking your hands in a mixing bowl—the messier the contents, the better. It’s a totally absorbing experience, you might even call it inadvertent mindfulness: when you focus solely on the sensations you experience in the present moment. You can lose yourself in the textures, smells and tastes of the ingredients, and keep whatever drove you to bake at bay for a while.
Baking is also physically satisfying because it offers the opportunity to use your hands to make something from nothing. I’ve never built a wall or tiled a bathroom, but I imagine the sense of satisfaction must be similar. You take raw ingredients (flour, butter, sugar, oats, dried yeast, salt, lemon, nutmeg, sultanas...) and turn them into something wholly new, by the sheer power of your hands. (Ok, and an oven.) Modern life and technology offer increasingly few instances for us to make or shape things ourselves, and while I’m not advocating we all rush to the river bank to do the laundry, there is something to be said for having a personal, physical connection to the objects and foods we consume on a daily basis. Cooking or baking something from scratch provides welcome relief from the industrialised and sanitised modern food industry, and is certainly a more accessible “hands-on” task than whittling spoons or brewing shampoo. Perhaps it subconsciously reminds us that we do have agency and ability in this mechanised, html-driven world. We can still use our own bodies and brains to make something and make a difference. We are not droids. Yet.
And of course, as with any handmade object, baking offers an opportunity for artistry and creative expression: one that uses pastry, rather than paint. We know that practising something creative has innumerable benefits for the mind and soul, as it allows us to share the inner world outwardly. And there is deep artistic satisfaction to be had from sprinkling just the right amount of almonds on a Bakewell tart, or by taking a gamble and veering off a recipe to great success. (Like that time I added orange flower water to a carrot cake and thought I’d reached spiritual nirvana.) Such creativity may not technically be necessary for survival, but as far as I'm concerned, it's essential for feeling alive.
Another attractive aspect of baking is its automatic association with affection. It’s almost impossible not to feel a bit better about life when someone offers you something they’ve baked—it's a gentle, yet demonstrative way of saying "I care about you". As children, sweet things were given to us by parents and grandparents: as a treat, to spoil us, as the physical manifestation of affection. In those days, life couldn’t get much better than being handed a warm gingerbread man, a sticky iced bun or a crumbly jam tart. In the sweetness we found safety—the assurance that we were cherished. I can’t help but think that comfort baking is a (perhaps unconscious) desire to feel this affection again, in the hope of directing it at ourselves. We long for the sweetness of soul that actual sweetness brought, which, as a grown-up in the 21st century, is sometimes hard to find. So we do for ourselves what others once did for us, as though trying to give ourselves a sort of internal hug.
Another huge stereotype, but a house filled with a regular supply of freshly baked bread/buns/biscuits is one that we generally assume to be happy. So it’s not really a surprise that, in the spirit of fake it til you make it, we use baking to create the kind of environment we want to live in. It’s almost as though we’re preparing our home for an impending guest whom we want to feel comfortable and safe. But this time the guest is, in fact, us. Far from an easy distraction or a desperate attempt at calorie-comfort, I think the desire to bake through sadness can actually be an attempt at something far greater. It’s a way of looking after ourselves, of soothing our sadness and trying to start again, to make a new person. We use a starter from old experiences and coax it into being with a little sugar, hard work and patience. The result is something new and altogether alive
Perhaps it’s not so unnecessary after all.
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