. I had pivoted professionally by about 1000 degrees a few years prior, transitioning from 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.
At first, being their student was somewhat humiliating, as I was so much older yet had so few skills. But, as luck would have it, my millennial co-workers were not only excellent teachers, they were also interested in learning themselves: bonding me to them during what would soon become a tough time in ways I could not have imagined.
I told her about the long waits pre-treatment, and how I would look around the room at all the other women with breast cancer— feeling both pleased that I looked healthier, and depressed that cancer-ridden me felt good about looking better than cancer-ridden them. I told her about how much I hated the needles, but how kind the nurses who wielded them were.
Intellectually, I understood exactly how they felt, though I like to think I would have behaved differently. But their reaction was just plain human: that very real combination of heartfelt compassion for the unwell, coupled with off-the-charts relief that it’s not actually happening to you. Human or not, however, it made me feel terrible—a weak and helpless version of me.
The whoopies, in particular, were practically life-saving. First, I adored making them in part because of their simplicity; a single large bowl, a whisk, and a rubber spatula were the only necessary tools. Second, I loved the speed with which they came together; after completing the mise en place and mixing the batter, a quick rest on the workbench was all that stood between me and a whoopie pie. Last, I was thrilled that they baked in less than 10 minutes—instant gratification.
At first, the bakery only sold chocolate whoopie pies, but eventually we were making gingerbread and pumpkin ones for fall, red velvet and peppermint ones for the holidays, and strawberry ones in the spring—and I truly loved them all. I had a nostalgic connection to the treat, no doubt, but it was also one of the first baked goods that I perfected, and that made me feel like an expert, filling me with confidence and pride. The assembly process felt peaceful and unhurried.
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