The Hobby That Healed My Inner Child

Baked cranberry orange cookies with maple icing

Let me first say this — the older I get, the more I am looking like my mama.

Well… now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s get into it.

Watching Her, Becoming Me

When I was a kid, my mom was the ultimate baker. And when I say ultimate, I mean every birthday cake, every single year, for as long as I can remember, right up until her death. She had it down to a science. Measuring by feel. Timing by instinct. Love baked right in.

Saturday mornings in our house always had intention. She made it her mission to do something. And that something was usually baking, arranging flowers, or sewing.

You see where I get it from now, right? LOL.

Cranberry Orange Morning Loaf

Baking Feels Different Now

For me, baking has taken on a whole new meaning.

I find a kind of peace there, the kind I can’t fully explain. The kind that settles my spirit when my hands are busy kneading dough or waiting patiently while it proofs.

Now… my weight finds peace in it too, but that’s not the point.

The point is: baking slows me down. It has taught me boundaries. I don’t want my peace disturbed while the dough is resting, and I don’t rush the process for anyone. There’s something sacred about honoring the timing.

Nothing can be forced. Everything unfolds when it’s ready.

My step grandmother & Step daddy (they definitely are my family nothing about them)

The Women Who Fed Me Love

And then there was my step‑grandmother, the ultimate cook in my life.

She mastered the art of all things cooking. Effortless. Flavorful. Intentional.

She made my favorite cake, truly the only cake I’ve ever loved.

But listen… it was her Christmas breakfast biscuits that took me down every single time.

She would look at me and say, “You not gone eat that, are you?”

And every year, without fail, I proved her wrong.

From fresh ice cream to homemade pickles, the women in my life fed people as an act of love. Baking was always inside of me.

I’m just now making room for it.

Baked Gifts for my friend and her co-workers.

Baking as an Offering, not a Business

What surprises me most is this:

I don’t want to sell it. I don’t want to package it. I don’t want it on a website.

I want to give it away.

To the unhoused. To people in need. To someone who could use a moment of sweetness.

Is that a thing? Because it brings me so much joy, and I want to put a smile on someone else’s face the same way baking puts one on mine.

40th Birthday & Herb biscuits

How This All Started

This blog was sparked by my 40th birthday.

I wanted to host a speakeasy‑style experience at my house. I wanted to cook all the food myself.

And baby… I bought all this damn flour.

So, I decided to try every recipe ChatGPT, and I could come up with.

Five months later, here we are.

Still learning. Still trying. Still getting better.

Croissants have been this month’s challenge.

Turns out healing is layered. Flaky, even.

Making Room for Joy

Baking didn’t just heal my inner child.

It reintroduced me to the women who raised me. It reminded me how love was shown in my family. It taught me to slow down, to protect my peace, and to let joy rise — just like dough.

I’m not perfect at it. I’m not done learning.

But I’m finally making room.

And that feels like home.

With softness,

Ronisha

At the Table with Ronisha