A Post a Day in May #9: Sweet kindness

I have pledged to write a new post for this blog every day in May. 

I came for the cake. I stayed for the kindness. 

Photo by Calum Lewis on Unsplash

I am a fan of The Great British Bake Off. I had heard about it and had watched its Canadian spin-off long before I actually fell down the rabbit hole of Victoria sponges, crispy biscuits and signature challenges that is the essence of the series. I didn’t know either Paul Hollywood or Mary Berry, the two judges — had never heard of either of them, in fact, but I quickly became a fan. 

I loved the Britishness of the cups of tea on the table, I loved the hugely varied accents with which everyone on the show speaks, and I loved the drama of each segment: Would the mousse meld? Would the bread rise? Would the showstopper actually stop the show? And, in among all that drama, I was delighted by, and became enthralled with, the kindness underlying the competition among the participants. And, most particularly, I fell in love with Mary Berry. 

A revered elder in the world of British baking, she was unfailingly exacting in her expectations — “It must be absolutely perfect!” — and consistent with her kindness towards the participants. When a young man was faced with retrieving his failed Baked Alaska from the garbage bin and presenting it as his (horrible) final product, Mary said, “This is a moment in your life that you wish were over. Leave it behind you now. Move on.” Or words to that effect. Her point was: This is not a happy moment, but it does not define you, or your baking. I loved her for that kindness. 

Paul Hollywood, with hair coiffed to perfection, was sterner and more macho but no less kind, in the end. He would give the bakers a look, as if to say, “You are kidding? You are doing that? Putting those two ingredients together?” And the participants would rise to the challenge and often, though not always, produce a result that Paul would admire, even respect. On rare occasions, he would even reach across the counter to shake the hand of the participant, clinching his oral praise for the unexpectedly delightful result with a tactile seal. 

But those were the easy moments. The tougher ones were when the baker fell short of the brief and did not meet expectations. Then, neither Mary nor Paul would mince words: “This is awful.” “It’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?” “I’m not going to eat that!” And the participants would say, “I’m sorry. I’m embarrassed.” Because that’s how the committed learner responds to the revered teacher when they have failed to meet expectations they wanted to reach, that they knew they could have reached if only…the butter cream hadn’t failed, the cake had been fully baked, the flavours had actually worked. They would return to their bench and push themselves harder to make the next recipe to the level of perfection expected by Mary and by Paul. 

I’ve watched a total of six seasons, and I’ve cried at the end of every one. When the winner is announced, I rejoice with them, for their achievement is spectacular. They have baked their way through umpteen recipes, risen to numerous unreasonable challenges by Mary and Paul, defying the baking gods time and time again — and they have triumphed in the end.

They have met the briefs. They have raised their game each week. And they have thrived: in the context of friendly competition and because of the kindness of two judges who cared enough to call them to higher standards. There is no sweeter kindness than that. 

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