If you’ve ever imagined what it’s like to run a café and build an online baking school at the same time, picture this: trays of cheddar and chive scones cooling on one side, a camera tripod balanced on the other, and me somewhere in between, dusted in flour, coffee in hand, trying to remember where I put my phone down (usually in the flour).

Some days it feels like I’m living two parallel lives. One is fast-paced and noisy, filled with the smell of coffee beans, the hiss of the milk steamer, and the steady hum of chatter. The other is quiet, almost meditative: my home kitchen, the same music playing softly in the background, the measured calm of filming a recipe for my baking school.

At the café, everything happens in real time. You can’t pause the rush or retake a moment. If a scone burns, you remake it; if the coffee machine groans, you just keep going. It’s adrenaline and instinct, all heart and hustle. At home, when I’m filming, I can slow down. I can talk through the why behind a recipe, not just how to make it, but what it means to me. There’s space to breathe, to reflect, to connect with the people on the other side of the screen.

On busy days, the café feels like the centre of a small, whirling universe. It’s an open kitchen, so I’m right there at the hatch where customers order, no barrier between us, just the smell of coffee and butter and the soft buzz of conversation.

Over the years, we’ve built a little community around that counter. Some people come for lunch, some for coffee and cake, and others simply for the ritual of it, the familiar faces, the warmth, the chatter. I see the same people most days; they’ve become part of the rhythm of my week.

In the chaos of a rush,  trays of scones going in, savoury croissants coming out, the line snaking to the door and beyond, I’ll sometimes catch the eye of a regular. We both raise our eyebrows and share a small, knowing smile. It’s that silent“here we go again”moment, a flash of humour and understanding in the middle of the madness. Those are the tiny exchanges that remind me why I love it here. The queues, the noise, the laughter, they’re all signs of life, of a café that’s thriving because of the people who walk through its doors.

The more structured filming , the lessons for my digital baking school,  happens at home, where the pace slows and I can breathe. I set up my tripod properly, measure every angle (and every gram of flour), and try to channel that same warmth I feel at the café into the screen. It’s quieter, calmer, but never clinical, my kitchen smells of butter and toasted almonds, and there’s usually a coffee going cold on the counter.

Somewhere between those two worlds, I’ve found this new rhythm, a version of baking that’s as much about sharing as it is about creating. The café reminds me why I fell in love with feeding people; the baking school reminds me that even after 35 years, there’s still more to give.

And maybe that’s whatBehind the Bake really means. It’s not about perfect lighting or polished videos. It’s about building something that feels real, one tart, one class, one messy, beautiful day at a time.

So if you’ve ever dreamed of starting something new, even when life already feels full, this is your reminder that it’s possible. You don’t need perfect conditions, a spotless kitchen, or a fancy setup. You just need to begin.

I’m still learning as I go, balancing two worlds that sometimes collide in floury chaos. But every time I hit record, every time someone messages to say they’ve baked along with me, it feels worth it. This isn’t just about recipes anymore, it’s about community, creativity, and finding joy in the everyday act of baking.

If you’d like to be part of that journey, you can join my digital baking school waitlist HERE or subscribe to my newsletter for stories, recipes, and behind-the-scenes snippets from life in the kitchen HERE

Because the truth is, the best things I’ve ever baked weren’t made in perfect silence. They were made right in the middle of the noise, where the real heart of it all happens.