When you start baking at home, with your mum by your side, standing on a stool just to reach the counter, the kitchen feels like a place of wonder. My memories of baking with mum were fun and mischievous. My parents ran a guest house in Harrogate when my brother and I were little, and there was a pantry.. oh, the pantry. It was a place of magic, stacked high with bags of flour, sugar, and dried fruit, though to an under 10 year old they all looked huge. One of my fondest memories is sneaking in with my older brother, armed with spoons and a sense of adventure. We'd plunge them into giant bags of pre- made crumble mix, and heap it straight into our mouths, stifling giggles as we tried not to choke on the powdery sweetness. The real challenge wasn't eating it, it was escaping undetected. We'd tiptoe out, wiping our mouths, convinced Mum would somehow know. Half the fun was in the daring, the other half was in the getting away.

The first professional kitchen I worked in was Flynn's. and if I'm honest, I was terrified. A) I didnt want to be there. B) It was all men. And C) I wasn't even sure I liked food enough to stay. But I needed a job.

But kitchens have a way of pulling you in, and before long I came to love it. Flynn's was small but functional, and it taught me that even in tight spaces, you could still make it work. Little did I know, I'd face tinier spaces, often using bread bins as makeshift worktops.

Then came outside catering, and some of those kitchens were immense. Fifteen to twenty chefs cooking at once, feeding 500 guests, all in temporary set-ups that somehow had to function. It was organised chaos at its finest: enormous spaces, huge numbers of staff, and yet somehow, everything came together.

Then came Hobbs House Bakery, small but mighty in those early days, before the wood fired oven was built. So squished for space, but as time moved on, and the business grew, kitchen space became tight, flour bins became my "counters", and improvisation was necessary. One small oven, crowded benches, and yet the magic of baking still happened.

And then "The Canteen"... well, the less said about that place, the better. A windowless cave of a kitchen, barely enough room to turn around, yet somehow we managed 100 covers every Saturday and Sunday. Looking back, I still don't know how.

Now, I'm still baking in places that aren't ideal, it often feels like a game of food jenga, with the little worktop space I have, every tray, bowl, and spoon needs it's own strategy. I've lost count of the times I've pulled a giant tray of cakes from the oven only to stand there wondering, "Right... where on earth can this go ?" And don't get me started when the oven refuses to stay alight when the wind picks up outside! But that's the reality of catering. It's not the kitchen that makes the baker, it's the baker who makes the kitchen.

Recently I took on a lovely 14 year old, Lauren, a friends daughter. I usually avoid taking on anyone under 17, but I wanted her to see what making cakes in a busy, way too small kitchen is really like. I sometimes wonder if people imagine it's all calm and cosy, with gentle music and the smell of freshly baked cakes. It's not! Week 2, and wow, its straight in at the deep end. Parkrun morning, thats hectic, non stop weekend baps, an event at the arts centre, so we get all the people from that coming in for coffee and cakes, cyclists arriving in droves, barely a moment to breath for almost 4 hours. Amid all that, I was baking, measuring, running baps, and wondering where on earth I could put all the cakes coming out of the oven! It was exhausting, chaotic, and utterly revealing, the perfect crash course in how demanding a real kitchen can be.

Baking in all these "wrong kitchens" isn't glamorous, it's broken nails, burns, sweltering summers, freezing winters, fish scales in your hair, and the smell of garlic and onion that just wont leave your hands (one of the many reasons I chose patisserie!) And yet, somehow, the love of creating something delicious keeps you going.

From the pantry of my childhood to massive outside catering setups and cramped professional kitchens, one thing hasn't changed: a little creativity, determination, and humour can turn even the "wrongest" kitchen into a place of magic.

Even if your kitchen is tiny or your oven temperamental, magic can still happen, all it takes is creativity and a bit of daring. And isn't it the chaos that makes the best memories?