This past winter, seeking refuge and focus, I found myself house-sitting on a tranquil island in Washington state. My sole companion was Emerson, a captivating blue-eyed Ragdoll cat entrusted to my care. My mission during this fortnight of secluded cat-sitting was to wrestle with my novel manuscript, diligently addressing the extensive feedback provided by my literary agent. This novel has been a labor of love, a five-year journey accumulating, I estimate, nearly a thousand hours of dedicated work.
Settled on the island, I quickly established a routine. Each morning, after tending to Emerson’s needs, I would position myself at the kitchen table, near the comforting warmth of the propane stove, and immerse myself in writing for four to five hours. Afternoons were for walks, weather permitting, followed by lunch and another writing session.
However, after just a few days of this intense routine, I felt suffocated by the manuscript. Clarity eluded me; the characters seemed lifeless, the plot convoluted. I was too close, my perspective blurred. An unsettling feeling crept in – was I actually making it worse? “You need to break it open,” a perceptive friend advised when I voiced my concerns. “Sometimes, things must become messy before they can improve.” But I don’t want to make a mess, I inwardly protested. My aspiration was to create something beautiful, effortlessly.
But I don’t want to make a mess, I thought. What I wanted was to make something beautiful, and for it to be easy.
Any author understands the limits of daily creative output. There’s a point where continued immersion becomes counterproductive, where the creative well runs dry. Stepping away is essential to regain perspective, to remember the world beyond the manuscript. Nourishment, personal care, and engaging with other forms of storytelling become necessary. This is precisely where The Great British Baking Show entered my life.
Prior to its American adaptation, the show graced British television as The Great British Bake Off. Utilizing the homeowner’s Netflix account, I began my baking odyssey with season two (series four of Bake Off), presumably where they had paused their viewing before their vacation. Having heard of the show, I, like many before me, was instantly captivated. I hadn’t realized the depth of my desire to watch British individuals bake. It was as if an unforeseen void in my life was being filled by this ensemble of earnest, amateur bakers, armed with chocolate cream and macaron ambitions.
Image: Judges Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood meticulously assess a baker’s souffle during the technical challenge, highlighting the high standards expected on The Great British Baking Show.
For the uninitiated, the show’s premise is straightforward: amateur bakers compete to be crowned “Britain’s best home baker.” The format is equally simple: each episode, contestants gather in a white tent, equipped with miniature kitchen stations, to tackle three challenges. The signature bake showcases their personal specialties. The technical bake tests their ability to follow intentionally vague and challenging recipes. And the showstopper is their opportunity to impress the judges with elaborate creations. There are no manufactured dramas, no romantic entanglements, no gimmicks. Two comedic hosts inject levity with gentle puns. Perhaps most endearingly, the bakers often pause amidst the pressure for a comforting cup of tea.
My experience with reality television isn’t extensive. In my youth, I watched American Idol and America’s Next Top Model. What drew me to these shows – the contestants’ passion, their dedication to honing their craft, the captivating process of artistic creation unfolding in real time – is mirrored in The Great British Baking Show. However, a fundamental difference sets it apart: its focus is unequivocally on baking. The Great British Baking Show transcends personality clashes, superficial beauty standards, or social hierarchies. There are no deceitful contestants, inflated egos, attention-seekers, or blatant saboteurs (save for the infamous baked Alaska incident in series 5). In season two, at least, the season I immersed myself in during my island retreat, no one is inebriated, fame-hungry, or riding on nepotism. Background information on the bakers is minimal, delivered through brief biographical snippets early in each episode. “When not baking, Becca enjoys jogging (grainy iPhone footage of Becca jogging)…today she will be creating chocolate and rum-soaked prune brioches.”
Refreshingly, harmony prevails among contestants, hosts, and judges alike. A genuine camaraderie develops as the bakers support each other through each stressful challenge. If a baker is running short on time, a fellow competitor will offer assistance. At the end of each episode, when a baker is eliminated, the entire group gathers for heartfelt hugs. This tenderness resonates with British viewers as well. Noel Murray, writing in the New York Times, observed that “fans have clung to the show as a model of what the United Kingdom can be — with country grandmas and big city immigrants sharing hugs and recipes in a makeshift kitchen in a white tent in a field.” The show is undeniably heartwarming, like a gentler, kinder version of Hell’s Kitchen, populated by the cast of Little House on the Prairie. (Confession: I’ve never actually watched Hell’s Kitchen but understand through cultural osmosis that aggression is a key ingredient. I imagine each episode involves Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson hurling furniture at pasta dishes.) I struggle to envision American television producing something comparable. If attempted, a wardrobe malfunction would likely occur by season two.
As I watched the show each evening, my brain weary from wrestling with my novel, I felt an overwhelming empathy for the bakers. They were visibly stressed, often to the verge of tears, having invested countless hours practicing, only to find themselves in a pressure cooker environment with others equally dedicated. They were all diligent, all deserving, all demonstrably good bakers – their very presence on the show affirmed this. Yet, at the end of each episode, one would be told they weren’t quite good enough.
Then, the connection struck me. The show, emotionally and structurally, mirrored the writing workshop experience, or even the broader journey of writing itself. A cookie representing a poem, a cake symbolizing a story. Throughout the day, the bakers stand at their stations, intensely focused on creating something both aesthetically pleasing and delicious, something others would savor. By the end of each challenge, they are dusted with flour and chocolate, their workspaces cluttered with used utensils and discarded ingredients. Then, one by one, they present their creations to the judges, vulnerable to criticism and yearning for validation. They wait anxiously as their superiors literally dissect their work, evaluating their worth as culinary artists. Whatever the bakers have produced represents their best effort, yet they understand that sometimes, even their best may fall short.
Whatever the contestants have baked, it’s the best they can do, and yet they understand that sometimes the best is still not enough.
Baking, like writing, is a frustratingly delicate art, though writing offers the solace of revision. Baking is arguably more unforgiving, a point the show underscores. Tears are a recurring element. Cakes collapse, bread remains doughy. In the throes of a baking crisis, one of the hosts will inevitably comfort a tearful contestant, “It’s alright, it’s just a cake.” While technically true – it’s merely a cake, a television program – any of those bakers would attest that a cake is never just a cake. It embodies heart and mind, the culmination of hours of labor, skill, and learning. It is their passion, and the faintest praise fuels their courage to persevere. I Learned From The Best bakers on the show that dedication and resilience are paramount.
The parallels between writing and baking are abundant. Both disciplines grapple with the tension between style and substance. Consider Frances, a baker preoccupied with aesthetics, often prioritizing elaborate decorations and themes over flavor depth. Every writing workshop has its Frances, the writer whose prose overflows with flowery language but whose characters lack depth and plots are nonexistent. Then there’s Ruby, the young, naturally gifted baker who, for years, kept her talent hidden, rarely sharing her creations beyond close circles. A baking career seemed an improbable dream, yet here she was, competing with fellow bakers, finally granted permission to truly try.
Image: A portrait of Ruby, a contestant known for her natural talent and growth on The Great British Baking Show, representing the journey of emerging creatives.
Ruby warrants closer examination, as she embodies the metaphor on multiple levels. Initially, Ruby evoked skepticism in me. She was conventionally attractive, young, and excessively self-deprecating. Approaching the judges, she’d adopt a wide-eyed, lip-biting demeanor. “I did so poorly,” she’d preemptively declare, before the judges even tasted her creations. “You’re going to be so disappointed.” Her self-doubt seemed performative, a tactic to manage expectations so that subsequent praise would be amplified. Her physical appearance also became a point of contention, distracting, some argued, from her baking. The male judge, Paul Hollywood, undeniably seemed to pay Ruby more attention than other contestants, though whether this influenced his judgments is speculative. This observation ignited controversy, with viewers accusing Paul Hollywood of favoring female contestants, particularly Ruby, who denied any favoritism.
While Ruby might not have possessed the technical prowess or composure of my favorite contestant, Kimberly, The Great British Baking Show’s intrigue lies in its inherent subjectivity. As viewers, we can’t taste the bakes and must rely on the judges’ palates. When it appeared the judges (particularly Paul) were leaning towards Ruby, despite seemingly more polished and experienced competitors, it’s plausible her tarts simply tasted superior. Her presentation was sometimes imperfect, but perhaps her flavors were more compelling. In this era of ubiquitous technology, we still lack the ability to experience taste remotely.
Image: A visually disastrous but likely delicious bake on The Great British Baking Show, illustrating that even failures can hold hidden value and taste.
By season’s end, my initial skepticism towards Ruby had transformed into genuine admiration. I learned she was only 21, a student of philosophy and art history, and that one week, baking practice was sidelined due to her roommate’s new cat, Rupert. Above all, she was diligent, imaginative, and hardworking, consistently producing quality bakes. By the final episodes, I questioned whether her self-doubt was as contrived as I’d initially assumed. Reflecting, I recognized a familiar echo of her reflexive, relentless self-deprecation in my own approach to writing. Especially at 21, every workshop submission was accompanied by the internal monologue: this is the worst piece of writing ever created, everyone will despise me after reading it. Once, at Ruby’s age, enduring a workshop critique of my story, I obsessively wrote in my notebook: One day you will be dead and none of this will matter, until the critique ended and I could retreat to cry in private.
Yes, some of your bakes will suck, and some may even be inedible, but in the end, there’s nothing to do but keep baking.
As I painstakingly revised my novel, cutting, adding, and wrestling with writer’s self-doubt, I permitted myself one episode of The Great British Baking Show nightly, a reward for sustained effort. Repeatedly, I witnessed contestants experience both triumphs and setbacks, yet persevere. Their passion was palpable, their investment in these seemingly minor creations profound. A poorly executed bake could elicit tears. Judges’ praise could induce visible joy. It was inspiring to witness such unreserved emotional engagement with creative work, individuals willing to expose their vulnerabilities – on national television – for the chance to share their passion. Returning to my manuscript each morning, I felt invigorated by the bakers’ dedication. Yes, it’s challenging, the show seemed to affirm, and yes, some attempts will be subpar, even inedible, but ultimately, the only path forward is to keep baking. The only path is to keep trying. For the frustration of baking is surpassed only by the frustration of not baking, of not creating. I learned from the best bakers that failure is part of the process, and perseverance is key to success.
What I find most compelling is imagining the contestants after the show concludes, after the winner is announced and the white tent is dismantled for the season. I picture them at home, in comfortable pajamas, quietly entering their kitchens in the pre-dawn hours, their only company a blue-eyed cat named Emerson (or perhaps Rupert). They reach into their pantry, retrieving flour, sugar, yeast. For now, it’s just them and their kitchen, their mixing bowls and spoons. When the bake is complete, only they will be the judge. I learned from the best bakers that the true reward lies in the act of creation itself, the quiet dedication to one’s craft, regardless of external validation.
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