After school, Friday.

Grandma was waiting at the campus gates like always. I waved to her; she replied by smiling back. I dragged my exhausted body to the 711 a block away as she followed behind me in her unhurried steps. Like the gentlewoman I was, I held the door open for her, feeling the rush of cold air hitting me hard on the face as I entered the crowded store.

Taking long strides, I was in front of the freezer in no time. My enthusiastic hands reached for the yogurt mix until... I felt a glare fixated on my back. I sighed and set the bowl down. Grandma walked up to me, handing me the BBQ buns she bought at the counter. “Eat some hot food, you’re not in Canada anymore,” she said in her even tone. Typical.

My pillow stayed damp till two o’clock in the morning that night as I cried my heart out. And cried some more about school. And my friends back in Canada. And the yogurt-granola bowl I abandoned.

· · ·

It is safe to say teenagers go through immense changes these days, whether by choice or circumstance. I would categorize myself in the latter.

I moved to Canada with Dad in kindergarten, and it was not until a few years ago I returned to China because of Covid-19. I was overcome with happiness, because I missed my motherland, and was undeniably hit by a wave of nostalgia when we first landed. Yet the joy subsided when I was around 13. After retrying all the Chinese food I’ve missed out on, I found myself craving granola. Classic lemon tarts. And, ultimately, the plate of good old fluffy pancakes dripping with maple syrup I got on Mondays.

The problem? I had a large, traditional family here. Breakfast meant Cantonese porridge, custard buns, and chow mein. It was of course scrumptious, but the Canadian part of me wanted more. I yearned for “American” food.

Baking walked into my life like a prince in shining armor.

Chinese supermarkets didn’t sell those frosted cookies you can get at Safeway? Fine, I’ll make them myself. I invested nearly all my time outside of school in the kitchen most afternoons. I whipped up masterpieces, treasuries, and pure gold－a.k.a brownies, cupcakes, and cinnamon buns. Imagine my excitement when I bit into the perfectly replicated cinnamon roll they sold at Cobs Bread! Even though my classmates didn’t value them as much as I did, the sugar was really all I needed.

As for now, baking become this inseparable part of me because I see it as more than just a skill－it was the refuge where I hid and weaved the threads of my two homes. I finally feel more in place now. Thus, for those out there who are going through immense changes in life, please, try taking one sweet bite at a time, and perhaps find comfort in the warmth of a soft, gooey cinnamon roll.