How reality TV baking became therapy
‘The Great British Baking Show’ satiates my sweet tooth — and my soul
In the early days of lockdown, discovering “The Great British Baking Show” was a revelation. I’ll admit, I’ve always had a strong penchant for reality television, but this wholesome, spirited series was the antithesis of the empty-calorie series I’d binged in the past. No catty conflict or crushing “idiot sandwich” moments à la Gordon Ramsay here; the show was all warmth and whimsy, support and solidarity.
The premise of every episode is simple: under a brightly lit tent in the English countryside, plucky Brits from all walks of life — retired grandmothers, engineers, small-town shop clerks — tackle baking challenges designed so that the amateur bakers are really only competing against themselves. The eliminations are downright cuddly (hosts have been known to spill some tears) and the ultimate prize — a modest glass cake stand — is unpretentious in its appeal.
Watching “The Great British Baking Show” (which airs in the U.K. as “The Great British Bake Off”) is like entering a meditative state. (Especially if you first binge one of the 11 seasons over a single Saturday as I did.) You can always count on the unwavering structure: first, a tried-and-true family recipe from one’s repertoire; next, an obscure and complicated technical challenge delivered with sparse instructions, sure to trip up even the most confident of bakers; and finally, a chance to dazzle with a showstopper. After a handful of mildly harried baking hours, judges Prue Leith and Paul Hollywood pore over a visual feast of confections: two dozen identical petit fours; tender génoise sponge enveloped in a glassy mirror glaze; a five-layer trifle terrine made with raspberry, yuzu, and white chocolate.
Amid all the uncertainty in the outside world, I have found immeasurable comfort in the methodical approach that brings each bake to fruition. If a contestant stays the course — proofing a cottage loaf dough until it has risen to double its size, whisking a meringue to stiff, glossy peaks — the final result is winning. And when the bakes don’t go to plan (humid tent conditions and abridged bake times stymie bakers left and right), there’s a pivot waiting to be made or a fellow competitor offering a helping hand.
So, inspired by the warmth and camaraderie of the show, a group of friends and I decided to recreate our own similarly low-stakes GBBS. We set out right as flour and sugar became supermarket scarcities, but the results were tantalizing nonetheless: tart lemon pinwheels, chili-tinged matcha scones, Montreal-style bagels, vegan macarons infused with Earl Grey tea. During one iteration of the signature bake challenge dedicated to the cinnamon bun, we designated judging duties to a friend via porch dropoff. Each offering later received a lovingly handwritten review: “Healthy yet decadent,” said one complimenting a sourdough-based version. Even one unlikely presentation, designed not for rousing camera pans, but rather for ease of delivery by bike, yielded earnest critiques: “Clever re-use of a chicken wing takeout container!”
My proudest bake of the lot was pasteis de nata, the eggy Portuguese custard tarts known for a shatteringly crisp base and smooth, creamy filling.
Growing up, it was a staple at my Azorian grandparents’ dinner table, a resplendent treat sourced from their neighbourhood bakery. Diving into the complex recipe, sure that my ancestral know-how would kick in, I finally understood why my Avó never bothered to tackle it herself. The puff pastry alone involved a seemingly insurmountable hurdle: the dough must be folded and turned again and again while the layers of butter stay chilled in order to yield the signature flaky crust.
When I placed the tarts into the oven, much like I’d seen the bakers do on screen, I sent them off with well wishes and encouraging words. But as I watched the butter start to seep out of the pastry just minutes after hitting the heat (a sign, I’d learned from past Baking Show blunders, that said dairy hadn’t been cold enough), I gently reminded myself that the outcome needn’t be Instagram-worthy — or even befitting any audience. The joy was in the meditative calm of centring my attention on a task, in putting my hands to work in a place other than my laptop.
In the end, my filling-to-pastry ratio was way off and I couldn’t manage to achieve the distinctive blackened top, but managing to pull off the signature spiral base felt like a decided victory. Celebrating my little wins was another GBBS takeaway: faced with even the most disappointing of bakes (a collapsed chocolate collar cake from season nine, meant to resemble the Eiffel Tower, comes to mind), the judges always found something positive to remark on. “I have to say, I think the way you’ve done the ironwork is brilliant,” Leith said of the squat structure entirely missing its top half.
That’s one reason the Baking Show universe resonates so much with Ann Pornel, one of two new hosts of “The Great Canadian Baking Show,” a CBC-aired spinoff of the smash show, which is returning for its fourth season on Sunday. “You’re watching people overcome themselves and getting out of their own way to succeed. I think that’s really comforting,” the Toronto-based comedian says. The feel-good vibes — which Pornel notes are “as kind and as nice and as supportive as you see on screen” — also prompted her to embark on some recent baking adventures. Pornel’s take on blueberry cheesecake, a treat made for her frontline-working parents, took hours longer to prepare than it probably should have, but she wasn’t dismayed. “Even the little failures that are inevitable are OK because it’s just baking,” she says. “We can do it all again.”
Now, when I want to feel some reprieve from the synchronous monotony and unease that makes up quarantine life, I find myself whipping up another lemon loaf or a dozen chocolate-chunk cookies and pressing play on an old episode of the Baking Show, each of which is as dependable as a treasured recipe.