Through these long months since
March, I’ve been trying new reci-
pes. Genoise and joconde and Vic-
toria sponges, choux pastry, rough
puff pastry, short crust pastry, chur-
ros and apple fritters, pies and hand
pies, carrot cakes, chocolate cakes,
strawberry cakes, pound cakes,
Bundt cakes, almond cakes. On our
100th day of sheltering in place, I
made a Boston cream pie. I started
leaving cookies, cakes and fritters
on my neighbors’ porches and find-
ing treats on my porch too. Late at
night, after work and school and
kids’ bedtimes, I make caramel and
crème pâtissière. Not every item
has turned out, but every effort has
made me feel more capable.
Recently, I taught my kids how
to make those buttercream flowers.
I hadn’t done this in more than 20
years, but it all returned to me: the
little squares of wax paper, the yel-
low counters in that community-
center kitchen. My kids are 9 and
- As I watched them try to form
the petals of a rose—you have to
move quickly, confidently, keep
practicing—I wondered if I had
looked that way at their age, de-
termined to make a sugar flower
bloom. I am a person who still car-
ries fear all the time. But my chil-
dren think I am fearless because
I can cook and bake. I deep-fry
doughnuts without hesitation. I
deal with boiling water, broilers,
gas flames. I remembered how to
make a buttercream rose in a mat-
ter of seconds. To my kids, I know
how to do so much.
In times of waiting and worry,
it feels useful to gather ingredients
and turn them into something that
might bring sweetness to some-
one’s day. Baking is so much more
than following directions; it’s
about understanding process. It’s
about trust. Whether I’m baking
with my kids or baking alone, I feel
a sense of peace I rarely have any
other time. Whatever the result, I
know I’ll be a little more ready for
whatever comes next.
Nguyen is the author of the novels
Short Girls and Pioneer Girl