Life is a Jigsaw

And Some Triple Choc Chunk Mega Cookies

I bet you were starting to think I’d abandoned you, dear reader. Well, I haven’t. I’ve just been buzzing around like a blue-arsed fly this past week, tying up loose ends for my upcoming brownie business, Ruff Puff Brownies, while at the same time organising the kitchen and weighing out the mise-en-place for yesterday’s afternoon tea class at my other venture, Barn Kitchen Baking School^.

When I started the plans for the school, way back in 2014, it was tough - we had so many hurdles to jump over to convert the barn from what had become a derelict hoarding house for my mother’s preapocolyptic supply of Heinz beans, dettol and jars of mixed antipasti (she doesn’t like to have a dwindling inventory) into what is now a beautiful baking school that I’m deeply proud of. But back then, I had the spritely zest of a 24-year-old, so leapt each with vigour. Now, after 10 years of trauma and tequila have ravaged me, I’m a little slower, but I tell you something: I still bloody love the challenge.

Setting up this business has reminded me that everything we do in our lives is important; every single hobby and job we take as we grow up will serve a purpose. The maths equations (and memory-stoking rhymes: fiddle-dee-dum, fiddle-dee-dee, for a ring around the moon use Pi times D) my school teachers taught me have been fundamental in my spreadsheets, and in scaling up recipes from a rounds tins and 20cm square cake tins to a ‘gastronorm 1/1’. The childhood pal I had, who is now an electrician, is contactable and there for me if something goes wrong, and we have a good giggle as daft memories emerge. The interpersonal skills I learned from drama school and dance classes is the magic touch between my suppliers and me. The fundamentals of customer service that my mother taught me as I served fish and chips in her chippy, or took in dirty clothes at her dry cleaners, have kept me smiling neatly, when deep down inside I’m dying to call the odd arsehole a, well, odd arsehole.

It’s as though life has handed me little jigsaw pieces, that in absence of any context, were just jagged little fragments that sometimes poked me in the feet or thigh as I trundled along. But now, with a pocket full of these pieces, I get it: I know who I am, I know why I am here, and I know what my purpose is. Working in television was a desperate attempt to fill a void inside of me - to be validated, to be worthy. But my purpose in life isn’t to be fulfilled by the rapturous applause of an audience; it is to work my arse off like both of my parents have done. To clap for myself. I’m working class. I’m rough and ready. I’m fucking proud of who I am and of where I come from. And most importantly, I’m grateful to the people and places that have handed me these jigsaw pieces.

That’s quite a waffling way to explain why today’s post is a little late, but I’m grateful to you too, dear reader, for lending me your eyes. For scanning these words and hopefully finding a little context for your own puzzle of life, too.