Dean Lewis and Cake Batter

Here I am, Dean Lewis playing on repeat, and I’m in the middle of my first cake order in almost eight years. I didn’t see it coming—a phone call from someone I met two years ago, who remembered that I bake. Just like that, I’m back in the kitchen, apron on, heart wide open.

The cakes are cooling now, while I’m lying here next to my girl, still lost in the music. It’s wild how things come full circle. I’ve fallen in love with many things in my life, but this—baking, creating—this is my first true love. Making something with my hands, something sweet, something joyful. A recipe passed down through time, filled with memory and care.

I realized tonight that music and baking are the first true compositions of my life. Both nostalgic. Both creative. I remember hearing the radio for the first time—how explosive it felt. Boyz II Men, Sunday morning tracks, and the way lyrics and drums sank deep into my bones. That same feeling hits me when I bake. The warm vanilla scent floating through the air, the quiet focus on icing a cake just right.

It’s strange, though—how people can sometimes take your love for something and twist it into bitterness or doubt. Just saying.

But tonight, I’m reclaiming it. Music in the background, cake in the oven, love in the process. And it feels like home.