When I was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 41, I was working as a “junior baker” in a hip, new Brooklyn bakery called Baked. I had pivoted professionally by about 1000 degrees a few years prior, transitioning from (unhappily) litigating in a fancy boutique entertainment law firm in N.Y.C., to joyfully baking up every treat you could imagine—jumbo chewy chocolate-chunk cookies; malted blondies; moist zucchini bread, studded with toasted pecans; and flaky, mile-high, cream biscuits.
I knew nothing about the world of pastry prior to starting at Baked, but I’d always had a sweet tooth that just wouldn’t quit, and was eager to learn how to satiate it without heading to the grocery store. Luckily, my 20-something co-workers there—equal parts hilarious and cynical, warm and bitingly harsh—were patient, (relatively) supportive teachers, despite the fact that they’d been students themselves only a year or so before.
from Food52
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