I Wasn’t Born Good at This

I started decorating cakes about ten years ago. If you’d seen my first few, you would not have guessed I’d end up doing this for a living.

I’m not being humble here. I need you to know there was no hidden genius involved. Just a lot of buttercream and a stubborn refusal to stop.

Anyone who’s ever baked knows the pride of turning simple ingredients into something delicious, or beautiful, or unexpected. The magic of cake decorating is that it’s all three.

My very first cake, melty split buttercream and all

The boulder

Back then, I was pushing a boulder up a hill. My boulder was my music career: something I worked so hard at and loved so much, that didn’t love me back.

Everyone has their own boulder. So much of adult life is effort with no finish line.

Cake was the opposite. It had a beginning, a middle, and an end, and the end was a physical thing I could point to and say: I DID THIS. That rush of dopamine from finishing something was new to me, and I wanted more of it.

And then we ate it. That part turned out to matter more than I expected.

I’ve always been drawn to art that isn’t built to last. I dedicated years of my life to theatre and live music, and cake is similar. A cake will never hang on a wall. You make it, you feel something, and then it’s gone. The slate (or plate) gets wiped clean, and all that’s left is the next one and what you’ll do differently.

For the first time in my creative life, I had a practice. Something I could do whenever I wanted, with a few simple ingredients, without waiting for anyone to give me permission or tell me I was good enough.

Learning in public

I’m proudly self-taught, which is a nice way of saying I learned everything by getting it wrong first, usually in front of people. Those were some of the most creatively satisfying years of my life.

Then the pandemic hit. A year and a half of limping through it left me so burned out that I was afraid I’d start to resent the thing I loved.

So I went back to the beginning. I thought about the boulder years, and how good it felt to make something just for the hell of it. Cake had changed my life. Maybe it could do the same for other people, or at least give them a few hours away from their own boulder and something to show for it.

So I started teaching.

The wobble

Every creative project has a moment where you wobble. You step back, look at what you made, and think: I hate this. I suck at this. I should quit.

I tell every class the same thing. When you hear yourself say that, congratulations: you’re having a creative experience.

Self-doubt is part of the process. It’s also the part where most people quit, which is a tragedy, because ALL OF THE GOOD STUFF IS RIGHT IN FRONT OF THAT MOMENT.

Most of my job is being the angel on your shoulder who gets you through it.

Why I teach

There’s one sentence I hear in almost every class: “I can’t believe I made that.”

That’s why I do this. It’s a privilege to make a room where adults feel brave enough to play, take a small creative risk, and walk out proud of themselves. I know how much that moment matters, because it’s the one that changed everything for me.

I’m never going to train for a marathon. The time, the training: soooooo not for me. But when runners talk about what it does for them, I get it. Cake decorating is my mini micro marathon. I kept going, and I’m proud of myself for it.

Your first cake doesn’t have to be good. Mine wasn’t. Come make one anyway.