If you’ve been following along, you’ll know that I spent four days in Turin before boarding a train bound for Bologna.

This is the next chapter.

Cissy…xo

Saturday 18th April

The train to Bologna goes by faster than I expected. Probably because I’ve spent most of it assembling and savouring a makeshift charcuterie board on the fold-down tray table. I slice off hunks of cheese from Latteria Bera and flick them into my mouth with my electric green Opinel folding knife. For a moment, I feel self-conscious about this whole performance, but then I notice that almost everyone else in the carriage is chewing on lunch too - piadine and thick slabs of focaccia layered with cured meats. My lunch suddenly seems far less out of the ordinary than if I’d pulled out a flaky Greggs sausage roll.

Bologna greets me with a muggy swell of heat and larger crowds than Turin. Mostly everyone seems to be my age and looking like they’ve fallen out of the Urban Outfitters catalogue. I bounce my suitcase along the road, the wheels catching in grooves and clipping my ankles, but eventually I make it to my new home for the next few nights.

A quick change and then I’m bounding up the 498 steps to the Santuario Madonna di San Luca. A brutal, sweaty climb. The kind of thing unhinged people run up for fun. At one point, I think the steps will never end, and I try not to catch the eyes of people descending. Their faces are smug and read, ‘yep, keep going, you’re nowhere near’. Eventually, I reach the top. The views over the hills to the stadium and the city, where architecture of the past blends with the new, makes the white shirt sticking to the curve of my spine worth it.

I check my phone. Over 30,000 steps today. Whoosh. I normally only do a fifth of that.

Later, I trade my trainers for something that makes me feel unusually pretty, a flowing white skirt and a black crop top. I’m more used to Service Works pants and a grubby faded tee.

At Drogheria della Rosa, I ask if they have a table for one. The waiter asks his boss. His boss flicks through the scribbled reservation book and tells me to wait. So I stand there, for ten minutes, in the way of other diners who are seated ahead of me, and big bowls of Parmesan cheese. Should I ask again? The boss, a grey-haired, older Italian man in a waistcoat, clips the waiter sharply on the shoulder and barks at him, in a way that makes me recoil - a Gordon Ramsey nightmare, minus the television cameras. I try to catch the young waiter’s eye to check he’s alright, but he keeps his head down. I think again about asking for a table.

Eventually, the boss seats me outside on a white tablecloth table for two. While I study the menu, a glass of wine is poured, followed by the customary Italian bread basket and a neat cube of frittata. When the boss returns, he hugs me, because, apparently, “I am alone.” The pity in his voice makes me feel insulted and infantilised, except I momentarily fold under the touch of another human. Then I remember the way he treated his staff and I recoil again. Men with power. Slimy.

A perfect corner edge piece (my favourite piece) of layered green lasagne arrives on a white scalloped plate. Seven layers. Light but rich. Crisp and soft all at once. I melt away into my own world.

The boss is right, I am the only person dining alone among a cacophony of couples. One pair is waiting impatiently for their late food, another is trying to coax tortellini into their baby’s mouth, and another is sitting in silence.

That familiar pang of loneliness creeps in as I suddenly feel very visible. I wish I could share this with someone.

Sometimes the fast clickety clack of an expensive bike chain soars past me and erupts my memory. He would’ve loved squeezing into that fucking awful Lycra and soaring around the scenic roads. He would’ve complained about the heat and adored the food. It makes me wonder what he’s doing now.

Not that I should give a fuck. Love is a spell on the mind, and heartbreak a curse.

I look at these couples again, who are mute, who are bickering, who are existing without really seeing each other, and it makes me feel so free.

Next to me, from the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a man’s white Adidas Stan Smiths sliding up a woman’s leg beneath the tablecloth. The fabric bends into animation, like Jude Law’s napkin head in The Holiday. I’ve been overhearing the young Australian couple’s conversation all evening. It’s dry, and now this. I have the ick. Or maybe I’m just jealous?

The osso buco falls apart in front of me, impossibly tender. I suck out the buttery bone marrow and drink more wine.

Then, almost by accident, I look up.

There it is - the moon.

A new moon, glittering faintly between the narrow corridor of houses opposite. I can still make out its full shadow.

It surprises me how much the sight of it steadies me. My long fascination with something so wildly alluring and rhythmic. I smile and I soften because in that moment, I know I’m not alone.

Sunday 19th April

My feet still throb from yesterday’s climb.

I don’t want to do anything today, but I don’t want to waste a day. It’s ok to relax though, right? A concept I still struggle to get into my head. To sit still and simply be with myself.

Hungry, I stroll through the quiet Sunday porticoes to the Slow Food Market. Despite the early hour, every stall is busy. There are wheels of cheese, crates of vegetables, and jars of honey catching the light. Everything looks good. I let go of overthinking and place a bet on which one to queue for.

Luckily, it pays off.

I point to a corner piece of slab pie and order it, without knowing what it is. The pastry is flecked with bran. I ask if it’s wholegrain flour and am told it’s made with an ancient grain, but that’s as far as our conversation can go. To be honest, it doesn’t matter. That’s enough to speak my language.

The shortcrust pastry is filled with soft swiss chard, sweated-down onions and lots of Parmesan. I Google it. A traditional pastry from the town of Reggio Emilia, called Erbazzone. I scoff it on a bench, feeling temporarily high from my discoveries.

Back at the apartment, the high has worn off.

Bologna feels different to Turin. Busier. Younger. Bigger. It feels confident. Something I can’t match today. I’m tired, which heightens my anxiety and makes me feel self-conscious, and it begins to trap me. So I trap myself indoors. There are stacks of espresso cups piling up in the sink, stained with brown rings. I can’t bring myself to clean them.

I am avoidant.

The only thing I can persuade myself to do is stroll a few feet around the block to the gelato shop. I order a scoop of Viceversa — zabione, chopped hazelnuts and dark sweet cherries — and another called Dolce Emma, made with fresh ricotta and figs.

I sit on a doorstep outside, licking the fast-melting gelato from the side of the short, stubby waffle cone before it runs down my fingers. Around me, people queue, chat, and drift along.

I feel better.

I wander through the nearby park as the sky begins to darken. I steal a few minutes on a bench with my book before thunder barks, low and heavy in the distance. Thick raindrops begin to fall through the air.

I head home. I run a bath. I read my book. That’s it.

It’s funny how deeply I’ve been conditioned to equate productivity with value. To measure my days by what I’ve achieved, seen and ticked off.

I’m learning to listen to my body more. Today it said: rest. It said that a Sunday abroad can look like a Sunday at home, something my sister patiently tried to remind me over the phone. That not every hour needs to be maximised. Not every moment is filled with wonder. It just took my brain all day to catch up. To release the guilt.

Maybe travelling with someone else would have made a day like today easier. There’d be another mind to make decisions. Someone to corral me into action. Instead, every decision belongs to me. Some days, that freedom feels exhilarating. Today it feels like work.

I hear my friend Louis Thompson has written another incredible piece for Nicola Lamb’s Kitchen Projects (out today), this time all about elderflower. Perfect synchronicity. Give it a read.

Much love,
Cissy … xo

Elderflower and Polenta Cake

Italy’s cooking is profoundly shaped by regionality in a way few other countries’ cuisines are. Each region retains a fierce culinary identity, shaped by politics, climate and geography. On my travels, I saw this on restaurant menus, in pasticcerie display cabinets, and in market stalls as I moved from North to South.

In the North, sweet treats are rich, comforting and influenced by the Alpine climate: heavy on butter, made with the world’s best hazelnuts, and laden with liqueurs and wines. (See my Chocolate Baci di Dama recipe.)

It’s no surprise, then, that I fell in love with it.

Back in England, and desperate to cling onto my trip for just a little longer, I bought a heap of secondhand cookbooks, among them Classic Food of Northern Italy by Anna del Conte. Flicking through its pages, neatly divided by region, I came across a recipe for pan di miglio, or millet bread.

The recipe originates from Lombardy, a region made up of nine provinces, including Milan - somewhere I didn’t properly venture into, despite passing straight through it by train as I snaked from Turin to Bologna via Milan. In hindsight, this now feels like a regrettable decision, but we are where we are.

The flavours and ingredients of the recipe felt unexpectedly British and, with elderflower season in full swing, it felt only right to give this recipe a go.

Traditionally, pan di miglio is baked for St George’s Day on the 23rd April (the patron saint of dairy farmers). Historically made with millet flour (though nowadays more commonly with polenta) and fresh elderflowers, the dough is shaped into small round buns that take on a rich yellow hue during baking. The finished buns are then dipped into cream before eating.

I’m still not entirely sure whether these sit more comfortably in the camp of sweet bread, biscuit or cake, perhaps somewhere between all three.

I’ve adapted the original recipe, as I found the traditional version quite gritty and dense. I wanted to nudge it towards something a little softer while still preserving its rustic character, mainly by incorporating a small amount of oil and soaking the polenta. I was also keen to keep this recipe true to its simple roots, requiring no special equipment or elaborate technique. That means there’s very little aeration, no creaming butter and sugar, no whisking to ribbon stage, but it still feels like a light, fluffy sponge. Expect something perfect to eat alongside a cup of coffee in the morning.

Elderflower and Polenta Cake Recipe

Serves 8

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A collection of practical notes from a few days in Turin in April.

Not a comprehensive guide, just the places I ate, drank, wandered into, and quietly kept returning to while moving through the city alone.

Cafés, bars, pastry shops, and small observations that might be useful if you’re passing through, or if, like me, you prefer learning a city by eating your way through it.

Where to Eat and Drink

Coffee

• Drinking coffee at the bar is the best place to get a quick, inexpensive hit of caffeine, and also how the locals do it.

  I went to Caffè Torino a few times to try different offerings. A cappuccino is only €2.00 when taken at the bar.

• If you want to try the famous bicerin – a layered drink of espresso, chocolate ganache and frothy cream – you need to go to its birthplace, Caffè al Bicerin. Ravin (the stranger from the bench) told me you only need to try it once.

• Caffè Mulassano and Caffè Elena are both excellent spots for people watching. Elena also serves its own house amaro.

Aperitivo

• Tucked inside Parco del Valentino, Imbarchino is a lively riverside bar filled with students, gossip, and cheap drinks, all overlooking the rowers on the water. A lovely aperitivo stop before dinner.

• Banco Vini e Aperitivo and ISOLA are modern spots that are trendier and noticeably more expensive than the classic cafés.

Read more

Thank you for joining me on my Italian journey. To accompany my diary entries, I’ve written a few Italian-inspired recipes that originate from the regions I visited. Up first are these, legendary “lady’s kisses” (or baci di dama), which are two domed hazelnut butter biscuits married together with melted chocolate. First invented in Piedmont, where the hazelnuts are among the best in the world, they’re a staple of Italian bakeries.

I’ve made a chocolate version by adding cocoa powder to the dough, but you can easily omit it if you prefer. Either way, they are incredibly light, melt-in-the-mouth biscuits that can be made in a food processor, making them incredibly easy to prepare.

Lots of love,

Cissy…xo

Chocolate Baci di Dama Recipe

Equipment

• Food processor

Ingredients

Makes around 16 sandwich biscuits (32 individual biscuits)

• 100g toasted hazelnuts

• 100g plain flour or 00 flour

• 20g cocoa powder

• 65g golden caster sugar

• Pinch of salt

• 87g cold unsalted butter, coarsely grated

• 40g dark chocolate

• 40g milk chocolate

Notes

• Swap the melted chocolate for a teaspoon of chocolate hazelnut spread. It’s not traditional, but Piedmont is the birthplace of Nutella, after all. I like the crunchy version from Bonne Maman.

• Freeze the hazelnuts before blitzing to prevent them from getting too warm and releasing too much oil.

• Freeze the coarsely grated butter before mixing.

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The attention to detail in the pasticceria is theatrical.

A golden platter with a cardboard handle. Scalloped wax paper cushioning each pastry. Everything wrapped and taped in printed paper so the bite-sized treasures won’t be crushed.

I stumble in after a meditative cycle along the Po River, gliding through the tree-lined path, among dog walkers and other cyclists. The city disappearing behind me.

The woman in the shop doesn’t speak English. Why should she? I don’t speak Italian. Thankfully, a local woman with a blonde blow-out, sun-leathered skin, and a bag full of baked goods interjects my fumbling interaction. Saving me.

I ask her to order me her favourites and whatever is most local. I’m handed a basket of pasticceria mignon (miniature pastries).

A candied chestnut placed on top of a custard-filled chocolate cup, a pastry shell filled with ganache and topped with gianduja chocolate ruched like a fan, a drop of choux stuffed with curd and kissed with pink icing, another choux, this time shaped like a king-oyster mushroom. It’s filled with a chestnut custard and dusted with cocoa powder, convincingly looking freshly foraged (known as funghetti).

Also in tow, a collection of shortbread cookies, baci di dami, a jammy thumbprint cookie and something resembling a Viennese whirl. Everything costs six euros. Six.

I unwrap these presents delicately, like it’s my birthday, as I sit beneath the tolling bells of the Basilica Di Superga. Only a steep tram ride away from the pastry shop. (Which I almost missed, as they only go once an hour, and I was consumed in the bakery).

Around me, rolling green mountains that merge into snow caps, and the City way down in the valley. I feel peaceful. I think, “I am meant for this. For wandering. For awe.”

A group of rowdy children surround me and pull me back to the present.

Back in the city, I stop for a bowl of agnolotti del plin - little pinched pastas filled with meat and coated in a thick, meaty gravy.

A botanical blend of aromatics and herbs arrives swirling over ice, caramel coloured in the tumbler. The amaro frosts with sweat from the sunlight.

Stale grissini and slices of bread in a paper bag ripped open.

Afterwards, I wander for hours like a flâneur. Soaking in what I can. A man selling vintage Campari posters. Elderly men in three-piece suits with felt hats, cravats and minute round glasses. Real gentlemen. Women with silver roller-set hair and oversized sunglasses sipping on crisp wine.

The old-timey feeling reflects in the chandelier of Florio, where I gorge on an ice-cream sundae.

At Porta Palatina (the largest fruit and vegetable market in Europe), I take a photograph of a group of workers smoking after their shift in the dropping light. Quickly, one man stands and rushes over to me. Screams at me. Loudly. Aggressively. In Italian. My heart quickens.

A woman appears and intervenes, translating and trying to calm him down. “She’s a tourist,” she says. But he keeps shouting. Then more men appear. How do I explain that I can’t delete the photo, it’s stuck to the plastic sheet rolled up inside my camera?

I leave quickly. Trying not to cry.

What a baby, I think. But, this is hard. Being alone with no one to soften these moments. No one to reassure you. No one to eat the other half of your sundae when you start to feel sick.

That evening I buy vegetables from the supermarket. Cannellini beans, a tomato, a sweet red pepper and some basil. I drown everything in olive oil and salt. Desperate for something not made of sugar.

I wash my already dirty whites in the sink to distract myself from myself. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. That bloody photograph better be worth it.1

Friday 17th April

I listen to my favourite podcast whilst walking to the train station. The man in my ears speaks about his attitude to life, which is not trying to deduce it all through equations. Just taking everything as it comes. I wish I knew how to do that more.

In Bra, I move through the market like a fish out of water. I want to order everything. Rotisserie chicken with salty chips. Piedmont cheeses. Hanging cured meats. Crisp fritto misto. Bundles of cimi di rapa curling in the heat. Teardrop heads of radicchio. Bouncy globes of tomatoes. Language fails me. I don’t know how and I’m scared to pull out Google Translate amongst the long queues of locals. Instead, I observe.

I drink a cappuccino and eat a soft brioche bun at the bar, while policemen sip on their espresso, which has been filled with two sachets of white sugar. The pasticceria is lined with dark wood panelling, slotted together with floor-length mirrors. In the corner sits a giant espresso cup large enough to fit a child.

I walk the streets, catching my reflection in the shop window. My body looks a little unfamiliar. It’s quietly shifted without my noticing. Or maybe now I’m only just paying attention. I feel like I’m becoming stronger, a woman.

People gather on the cobbled streets to gossip. Breakfast, lunch, and most hours in between. It feels communal. Less rushing from one place to the next, like in London. It makes me wonder what the fuck I’m doing with my life.

At Osteria del Boccondivino, the pea-shaped blossoms of the wisteria are wilting. Little violet leaves scatter the bricks and sun umbrellas. It grows impressively up the railings to protect the two floors, weaving through the grates. The manmade and natural entwining. Below a restaurant, famed for being part of the pioneering Slow Food Movement.

I eat slowly, savouring soft, yeasty, wholemeal bread, the famous Pane di Bra, and grissini that snap perfectly with each semolina-crusted bite.

Vitello tonnato. Ribbons of pink veal and tuna emulsified in a rich mayonnaise, plated like a flower. The meat marbled with barely a chew. Then a plate of “40 egg yolk” Tajarin with Bra sausage ragù. Each ribbon of pasta is slightly distinct from the next, signs of being hand-cut. The ragu is soft. Softer than the pasta, which still has bite.

Men in suits, women in shirts and blouses. I stand out. Black suede grubby Birkenstocks, cream capri trousers and a black and white adidas tracksuit top.

A small jam jar of Parmesan arrives at the table. And a little bell rings in the distant kitchen like at school. I’m debating in my head the appropriateness of taking the paper bag of bread home because it tastes so good. I will. Fuck it. I tuck it into my overflowing tote and hope no one sees.

Men in suits pour wine for each other, showing off the labels, and I can only assume, through their gestures, that it is a symbolic jerking each other off. A status performance disguised as connoisseurship. The only woman at the table stares onwards.

Defeated. I want dessert, but I can’t.

Later, in Turin, I regret booking dinner.

At Scannabue, I order tartare. A mistake. Three mounds of raw meat. The animal’s heartbeat smacking out. I force a few bites, trying to disguise flesh with slippery, salty anchovies. I apologise internally to the cow. The agnolotti that follows redeems my bad choice. It swims in butter. There’s no gravy sauce like yesterday. Each time I stab a parcel onto my fork, I slide it across my plate, coating it in butter like a paintbrush dragging paint across a wall.

The room fills up. I recognise the English voices. As it gets louder, I feel lonelier.

I’m considering going to a bar. Meeting someone. Drinking more. But I don’t want to spend more money to just end up feeling more lost. Instead, I go home.

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18th April

It’s my final morning in Turin, so I force myself to get up and go. I run. The city is quiet, the heat begins to burn through the clouds, I feel lighter.

I stow my luggage in a locker, enjoy a creamy Marocchino at the bar, then head to a cheese shop.

Inside, through the blue fly chains, time has slowed. Cream whips in a clunky barrel mixer and is served in cups like gelato. Gorgonzola oozes and is scooped from the wheel. Zabaglione churns in the window like golden silk. And candied fruits shine as they swim in a fishbowl of syrup.

A patient woman helps me choose local cheeses and cured meats for my train journey lunch. She kindly writes every name on the wax paper so I can research it later. Montebore. Toma. Salame di Monferrato.

I carry them onto the train with a tomato salad stuffed into an old yoghurt container.

The city starts to fade behind me, whilst I eat the bread I stole from lunch.

Time feels endless when you’re alone, but Turin’s showed me I’m more than capable.

Next week, I’ll be sharing my Turin guide. It’s full of practical notes, food recommendations, and a link to a curated Google Map to help you explore the city for yourself. Oh, and a recipe too!

It was a trip that had been quietly brewing for some time, but only came together a few weeks before I flew.

What followed was a journey of small encounters, solo meals, moments of discomfort, beauty, and unexpected clarity.

Over the summer, I’ll be sharing excerpts from my journal alongside city guides, curated maps, and essays shaped by what the trip revealed.

This is the first chapter: four days in Turin.

Tuesday 14th April

I have a sick feeling in my stomach as I sit on the edge of a blue leather seat, bound for Turin. It feels like I’m about to do something completely stupid: spend money I don’t really have and fling myself into the unknown.

For what?

To experience life? To outrun my anxieties? To face the heaviness of everything that has happened?

I’m not sure I’ve thought this through.

My eyes mist. I’m on the edge of hysteria.
What am I doing?

Little shards of crisps are scattered across the floor at my feet from whoever sat here before me. The remnants of someone else’s journey. Now here I am, on my own.

Let your arms out to the universe and ask it for the answers, the podcast narrator tells me. Where are you going and what is your purpose?

“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know! Why do you think I’m on this bloody plane in the first place?”.

Never more have I felt the world’s pressures to have it all mapped out by now. 31. Single. Unemployed. Living with my parents. I’m floating somewhere in between.

All I know is that I want to feel at home. To have my own home. To learn. To be free.

Where that is, I don’t know yet.

My soul is feeling a little lost, a little bruised. Not helped by the fact that when I turn the pages of my book, Nesting, I’m reminded of him. The places the characters go are so hauntingly familiar: Phoenix Park where we kissed sheltering from the rain beneath the canopy of the trees; Dollymount Strand where the dog raced into the waves; the turn at Glasnevin crossroads towards his parents’ house.

I clench my jaw to stop myself from crying. It works, only just.

It’s been a year and four months.
How can the pain still feel so real? I guess it’s stitched into me.

It feels cruelly unfair. And also, something else. Something so beautiful. So beautiful to have proof that I can love so deeply. That it was all real. And now that I’m here.The stubborn, strong rubber bands of pain, are slowly snapping free.

Maybe that’s why I’m here. This impulsive, gut-led decision to leave. Not for a holiday. To heal. To let go.

Wednesday 15th April

I’m drinking an espresso from a small yellow machine in my aggressively primary-coloured painted accommodation. It tastes faintly of vanilla. The sky is grey, but I know it will clear.

The obvious question: Where do I begin?

The espresso is gone in two gulps. That feels like a start.

The supermarket, obviously. Weirdly, my favourite place to explore. In my opinion it tells you a lot about the place you’re in.

Inside, it’s a joy, much more than our Tesco. Ricers, moulins, endless packets of grissini, a whole aisle dedicated to different shapes of pasta, vegetables freed from plastic, citrus fruits still clinging to their leaves actually smelling like something. Alive. A sign of a culture that is happy to eat and cook well.

Outside, the street is perfumed with a heady mix of men’s aftershave and cigarette smoke. I look up: on one side, the snow-peaked tips of the Alps; on the other, soft green hills rising towards the Basilica di Superga.

I’m dropped into the middle of it, slightly dazed.

I’ve already learned the hard way the rhythm of Italian transactions: order first, pay, order again at the bar with your receipt, then receive. There’s choreography to it. In Caffè Torino it’s no different. The dolci sitting in glass cases like they’re on display in a museum. I order, then stand at the bar and sip a velvety cappuccino. (It’s cheaper this way). And oh, so much more delicious than at home.

“Aperol Spritz! Campari Soda! Caffè! Macchiato!”

The waiters call out orders to each other in a rhythm that fills the room, bouncing off the walls like music. (There is no music). A flickering red Martini sign hums under the portico. Outside, the afternoon begins to warm, just as I hoped it would.

They spot my foreignness immediately. I fumble through the handful of Italian phrases I know, words catching in my throat. I feel useless for a moment, just standing there.

But I try to soften it with a look that’s begging, half apology, half plea, and luckily, they meet me there.

Lunch is two piadine: one with melanzane (aubergine), cheese and tomato; the other porchetta, scamorza and potato. Less than nine euros for the two. My eyes, as always, are bigger than my stomach. Too used to someone else finishing what I can’t.

I sit in Piazza Castello, watching the world pass by, pulling the porchetta from one flatbread and stuffing it into the other, to make the sandwich I really want.

A man gestures towards the stone bench, asking something in Italian. I assume he wants to sit. The language barrier feels thinner than I expected, as the hands do most of the work.

He notices my camera and switches to perfect English.
“Are you a photographer?”

It’s a gateway question. Suddenly, I’m having lunch with a stranger.

Ravin, from North-West London. In Turin for language school.

Each time he goes to show me something on his phone, he pulls out a tiny pair of frameless glasses from the back of the case. Sort of comical but very practical.

He gives me a list of places to see, small anchors in a city that still feels wide open. And tells me about the troubles his young-adult children are having trying to find jobs, despite reputable degrees. “It’s who you know, not what you know”, he says.

Later, wandering aimlessly and suddenly desperate for a wee, I slip into a fancy hotel and walk with purpose, as if I belong. No one questions it. I peel off my socks, wash my hands, and try to cool down in the bathroom. Wearing all black was a big mistake.

Ravin recommended an ice cream spot, Papalele, which isn’t far away.

I order one scoop of gianduiotto (inspired by the region’s signature chocolate and hazelnut ingot shaped sweets) and one called Romance: stracciatella-like, with shards of chocolate and strands of candied peel. I eat it standing in the square, the sun now fully out.

I try to draw. It’s bad. I’m out of practice. Still, the gelato is heaven. I feel like I could cry.

I drift to Imbarchino, a bar by the river, full of students. I order a candy-red Campari Spritz and sit by the water, watching rowers glide past. The language around me is fast, melodic, and out of reach.

I’m a little drunk almost immediately. I blame the sun.

Dinner is at Pescheria Gallina. Wine, bread, and a main for €17. Not the romantic Italian dinner I might have imagined for a first night, but it’s full of locals, loud and alive. Their beady eyes flick toward me, silently willing me to finish so they can take my seat.

The fish pie is like something you’d have at home. Soggy pastry stuffed with courgettes, chunks of cod, with an underseasoned, underdressed shaved fennel and radish, leafy green salad. Comforting.

By the time I leave, the panic from yesterday feels further away and I feel more confident.

I moved. I spoke. I ate. I sat with strangers.

For now, that’s enough.

Behind the overwhelming enormity of everything in New York, from the buildings to the takeaway coffee cups, there’s a feeling that anything is possible. That’s why people move here, right? It’s a city built on ambition. The energy radiates from the pavement upwards, from the people rushing past you, from the constant sense that something is always happening just around the corner.

And yet, whilst the city keeps moving outside, inside there’s a much slower rhythm. One dictated entirely by the eating and sleeping rhythms of my new niece and nephew.

This trip wasn’t about ticking off restaurants or racing between neighbourhoods. It was more like Christmas: constant feedings (for everyone), long stretches sitting still with a baby in your arms, and time measured in naps rather than reservations. Luckily for me, my brother and sister have lived in New York for over twenty years, meaning the hard hitters of my growing checklist have mostly been ticked off. This time, the city felt secondary. Which, in many ways, made everything simpler, as any time spent away from my family had to be intentional. There was no point overwhelming myself with a sea of little blue dots saved on Google Maps. I was never going to get to all of them anyway. Located mostly around Williamsburg, Brooklyn and Lower Manhattan, we dipped in and out of places that felt easy, familiar or simply because they were close by.

The Supermarket Pilgrimage

Supermarkets always hit differently abroad, and America takes it to another level.

Our first stop (perhaps shamefully) was Whole Foods and CVS. Not because we really needed anything, but because it’s a ritualistic spectacle. In fact, a must.

The fruit and vegetables glow like they’re on stage, polished and perfect. Occasionally misted by a rigged-up watering system that gives a “just-picked” illusion. Even the packaged food is theatrical. Bold, brightly illustrated labels wrapped around tins, playful cartoon fonts trying to signal authenticity, charm and small-batch credibility, though likely not.

It’s hard to resist. And you can’t.

The till racks up $50 on only a few items, things like a pot of hummus, the “best tortilla chips ever” (according to my sister on the Mi Nīna brand), a soap from Mrs Meyers Clean Day, a cherry-flavoured Siggi’s skyr-style yoghurt and a packet of thin, crispy butter cookies.

Breakfast Baby

A thick, white, sesame-crusted bagel stuffed with a sturdy schmear of scallion cream cheese, washed down with a cigarette-ash-flavoured bodega drip coffee, is the best breakfast in town. Something about the lingering taste of these dark-roasted beans on your tongue throughout the day is something I know I shouldn’t enjoy, but do. And it feels right in New York, and New York only.

A bacon, egg and cheese on a challah roll or bagel from Frankel’s Deli is another preferred way to start the day. When the sun is out, the light in the deli glows on your face, and makes everything feel better. More importantly, it’s located just a few steps away from Peter Pan Donut & Pastry Shop, which makes for the perfect breakfast dessert: a fluffy, sugar-coated pillow.

Lunch Break

A historic NYC establishment, open since 1929, is Eisenberg’s Sandwich Shop (now called S&P). Dimly lit and narrow, the shop is anchored by a thin counter and an even smaller galley kitchen, which miraculously turns out order after order.

The food is classic deli style - thick slices of spicy pastrami licked with bright ochre mustard, or Russian dressing, inside a white bouncy baguette; tuna melt on rich, earthy rye; crisp latkes served with apple sauce and sour cream for dipping; and matzo ball soup, a light chicken broth with dumplings, soft herbs and carrots that still hold their bite.

Or, swing into the Middle Eastern institution Sahadi’s to build a picnic - soft housemade flatbreads, marinated grilled meats, freshly made hummus, salads and golden, glazed Baklava. There’s also troughs of nuts, jelly snakes, and my favourite —chocolate-covered pretzels — that can be scooped, weighed and packed to eat on the go.

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Something Sweet

Browsing the produce at the Union Square Farmers’ Market is endlessly enticing. Boxes of varieties of apples piled high, vegetables slightly wonky, large wheels of cheese sliced with wire in front of you - everything feels bountiful and happy.

Amongst the stalls is the Lost Bread Co., a bakery from Pennsylvania. They mill locally grown grain on their new American Stone Mill. I took home a sourdough boule called Homadama (a modern homage to traditional New England Anadama bread), which is a dough folded with a cracked corn porridge (hominy). A packet of pretzel shortbreads, a cookie that has unintentionally built a cult following. And a classic chocolate chip cookie.

The savoury shortbread biscuits use up leftover pretzel breadcrumbs by folding them into a shortbread dough. They’re dipped in lye (the traditional solution that gives pretzels their distinctive crust) and finished with coarse salt before baking, making them extra “pretzel-y”. I ate these on their own, but they would work beautifully as a cheese biscuit.

On paper, these are just chocolate chip cookies, but in reality they’re the best I’ve eaten in a long time. Made with spelt flour and smoked barley malt, the chewy cookie has a rich, almost treacle-like depth, with a hit of smokiness that makes it complex and definitely not an afterthought. Often the case on bakery menus, as a choc chip will always be a customer pleaser.

Nearby, a small black stand perched behind some stalls sells the classic New Orleans-style beignets. Dave, the owner, wears a forest-green beret and fries the pastry to order, flipping them in and out of the oil with a spider (mesh-strainer). They jump like fish out of water. On the pass (the tiny counter of the truck) Dave dusts them with a thick snowfall of icing sugar from a vintage metal sifter. Golden, warm, and best eaten in the sun.

If you’re drawn to the idea of a giant, golden, mirrored croissant hanging from the ceiling, go to Librae Bakery. It’s fun! For me, though, the oversized, glossy cardamom bun filled with pastry cream was hard to eat and far too sweet. Also not for me, are these chocolate bars, which I bought mainly for their names. All pretty disappointing and nothing on Snickers. Save yourself the heartbreak.

Night Feed

Chrissy’s Pizza began as a pandemic-era apartment pop-up, and is now a highly sought after pizza joint in Greenpoint. There are no slices here, only whole pies made from 50+ hour cold-fermented dough. So come hungry, or bring help.

A classic cheese pie, bubbling just after last orders, and eaten in a hotel bed, is the way to do it. Just don’t impatiently take a bite on the walk home, you will burn the roof of your mouth.

And I’m happy to claim that it’s perhaps the best pie I’ve eaten…

You can’t go to New York without having pizza, but also tacos. Taqueria Ramirez is the spot. The menu is small, each taco around $5, so you may as well try them all. Definitely order the al pastor: slowly roasted pork from the trompo (rotisserie spit), that’s crisp at the edges and succulent within, topped with pineapple and tucked into a soft corn tortilla.

Being handed a pencil and a tick-list menu is a small joy. My big sister has been taking me to Dim Sum Go Go in Chinatown for years. It used to have this amazing trolley, and lazy Susan. Now, it’s a little bit more refined and expensive, but still delicious. Garlicky, glistening greens, sweet yeasted buns brushed with butter and filled with sweet pork, delicate shell shaped dumplings filled with hot broth that can only be slurped from a white, flat-bottomed spoon, and pots of jasmine tea poured endlessly.

Baking Supplies and Books

Interested in visiting the American version of Nisbets? Go to Win Restaurant Supplies. A slightly chaotic but enticing store. You walk in thinking you don’t need anything, within minutes you’re holding all types of aluminium sheet trays, debating which cookie scoop to buy (red, blue or black handled, or maybe them all), cradling a boar-hair pastry brush, and imagining what you might need for “work”. Like a kid in a candy shop, everything feels necessary, but only so much will fit in your carry-on suitcase.

Round the corner is Bonnie Slotnick’s Cookbook shop, another New York institution, of nearly thirty years. Inside, there’s nothing new, only an array of antique and out-of-print cookbooks, stacked in a precarious system. Bonnie herself sits amongst them, watching you carefully. There’s no photos allowed in here and you have to pick the books up with care. It takes a moment or two to warm to her (or vice versa), but once you do, she reveals herself as an encyclopaedia of culinary history. Mention a title and she knows it instantly. Mention a genre, she’ll tell you where to look. She’s a true “New Yorker”. A rare character that is sadly fading away.

We got talking about her time as a food stylist, back when magazines compiled recipes into seasonal cookbooks, when colours were saturated, and plating was theatrical and elaborate. The kind that now feels nostalgic, that reminds you of Delia Smith and Martha Stewart.

I bought Sweet and Savoury Pies by Pamella Z. Asquith’s It felt fitting - what do Americans do better than pie?

Inside, little illustrations, and tucked into the front cover, a few themed magazine cuttings, placed there by Bonnie herself. A small, thoughtful gesture that made the book feel like something already loved.

I left a book behind, which I’m kicking myself about. A first-edition of Italian Food by Elizabeth David that had been owned by Mimi Sheraton, the innovative first female food critic of the New York Times. If someone sees it, please buy it and love it.

One to Bookmark

If you’re visiting New York and want a more insightful guide, I recommend my friend Caroline’s The Locavore Guide, a digital directory of thoughtfully curated places to eat, shop and explore. You can pick up a physical guidebook too, and visit her store, The Locavore Variety Store, where the shelves are filled with useful and unexpected things you didn’t know you needed.

It’s not often you can let the energy of a city like New York pass you by, but it’s an almighty feat to try and conquer it. So take your time. Move through it like a local, stepping into it only when and how you like. A slower pace will offer up the weird and the wonderful. I promise.

I hope this provides you with a few ideas for delicious outings if you ever find yourself there.

Thank you for reading.

Much love,
Cissy … xo

The bird, enjoying the first warm days of spring, bounced from foliage to grass to table, and back again, without a care in the world. At points, we locked eyes with a quiet familiarity, like spotting your best friend across a crowded room. I felt as though it was trying to speak to me, and if you believe in that kind of thing, (which I like to, on occasion), it felt symbolic of the changes I’m embracing and a past I am shedding. After all, the robin is a harbinger of spring - a time of rebirth.

That morning was the first time in a long time that I’d sat phoneless, with only my thoughts, a pen and paper, and the sounds around me for company: the gushing water from the neighbour’s hose as he begrudgingly showered the plants; the joyful murmur of excited voices echoing from the Scolt Head’s garden; the woodpigeon’s beak scratching up and down its feathers as it cleaned them while lounging in the branches; and the hum of a light aircraft in the clear powder-blue sky, which for me always marks the thawing of winter and a vernal promise. A similarly nostalgic sentiment as the wafts of freshly mawn grass.

These grounding rituals of life are rare for me (and I’m sure for you too). Normally, my mornings are governed by the regimented schedule of baking - a get-up and go sort of thing - and reluctantly, my phone.

Eating a slice of toast though will never fail to bring a similar sense of joy into my life as watching a robin dance through the garden. So, as I turn a new page in my book, away from Quince Bakery (I’m leaving at the end of next week) and into the unknown (I’m available for work, in case you’re interested), I will continue to eat bread.

With a lot more free time on my hands, perhaps I will consider resuscitating my sourdough starter. Until then, a traditional yeasted loaf will be just as pleasing. Because let’s be real: sourdough, I love you, but you really just aren’t the perfect companion for bacon, or crisps, which is the comfort I need right now. Of course, the perfect vessel for these is a pan loaf. A bread with an interior as fluffy as a perfect pillow, edges so neat they slice like sheets of paper, and a spongy texture ideal for maximum juice soakage.

Don’t shoot me. I know the negative impacts of mass-produced white bread and its nutrient-lacking ingredients, but look, there’s a time and a place. And this is it. The difference? Instead of grabbing it from the supermarket, we’re going to make it ourselves.

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A Classic Tin Loaf

I’d love to call this recipe “Batch Baby”, but this loaf isn’t technically a batch loaf. It’s baked alone in a tin and can’t be gently torn from its fluffy neighbours after baking. It does, however, share the same dark, well-fired crust and pillowy crumb that make batch bread so distinctive. So, for the sake of bread legalities, I’ll be classing this a classic tin loaf, albeit one heavily inspired by the Irish batch.

In Ireland, a batch loaf refers to a style of yeasted bread traditionally baked in groups, with multiple loaves sitting snugly together in a tray (or originally a wooden frame). As the dough proves and bake, the loaves join at the sides and are pulled apart once cooled, leaving soft edges and a dark crust.

These soft-sided, dark-crusted loaves were once a daily staple on the Irish table, long before the rise of the slice pan - the uniform, tin-baked bread with a bouncy-white crumb, more commonly used for sandwiches and toast. If you’re lucky, you might even catch the Brennans’ delivery drivers in Dublin swinging open the back doors of their golden sprinter vans in the wee hours as the nation’s favourite squeezable loaf is delivered to local shops across the city. In those quiet moments, neat racks of shining wax-papered loaves glow, as if a beam of light were pouring out from within.

As Jp McMahon notes in his historical exploration of Irish batch bread, On Batch Bread, while many artisanal bakeries have turned towards sourdough, it’s worth remembering that “before sourdough was trendy, batch bread was ‘our’ sourdough”. Perhaps it’s time for a revival?

This recipe draws on that tradition, creating an easy, same-day loaf that brings comfort and flavour. It includes a small technical addition in the form of making a tangzhong, which involves cooking out a small portion of flour and liquid into a thick roux. Gelatinising the starch in this way allows the dough to absorb more liquid, stay softer for longer, and in this case, reduces the disruptive effect of coarse bran from the wholemeal flour on gluten formation. The tangzhong needs to be cooled before adding to the dough, but it can be made ahead and stored in the fridge for up to three days.

If, like me, you find yourself fascinated by the history of bread, I highly recommend reading Jp McMahon’s article in full, which offers a thoughtful and deeply researched look at the story behind one of Ireland’s most iconic breads.

A Classic Tin Loaf Recipe

Makes 1 x 800g loaf

Equipment

• Stand mixer fitted with dough hook

• 3lb loaf tin, lightly greased with neutral oil

Ingredients

For the tangzhong:

• 80ml milk

• 40g coarse wholemeal flour

For the dough:

• 365g strong white bread flour

• 6g dried instant yeast

• 12g fine sea salt

• 28g soft unsalted butter, thinly sliced

• 15g golden caster sugar

• All of the tangzhong, cooled

• 125ml tepid water (around 25c)

• 125ml whole milk, room temp

Method

• For the tangzhong, in a small saucepan bring 80ml milk to a simmer. Add in 40g coarse wholemeal flour and beat with a wooden spoon for 1 minute to cook out the flour. It will look like a very thick porridge. Transfer to a container with the lid off (to speed up chilling) and place in the fridge to chill.

• When your tangzhong is cool to the touch, begin mixing the bread dough.

• For the dough, add 365g strong white flour, 6g yeast, 12g fine sea salt, 28g soft butter, 15g golden caster sugar and all of the tangzhong to the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a dough hook. Mix on a low speed for 1-2 minutes to combine.

• Add in 125ml tepid water (around 25c) and 125ml room temperature milk, and mix on medium speed for 6 minutes.

• Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a dough scraper and leave the dough to rest for 6 minutes.

• Mix again on medium speed for another 4 to 6 minutes, or until the dough becomes smooth and elastic. Signs to look for are the sides of the bowl becoming clean, hearing a slapping sound as the dough pulls away from the bowl and the dough hugging the hook. When stretched, the dough should feel strong and elastic, like a muscle.

• For the first rise, using a scraper, or damp hands, transfer the dough into a lightly oiled bowl or container (at least double the size of the dough). Cover and leave to rise in a warm place for 60 to 90 minutes, or until doubled in size. The oven is a good spot for this - make sure it’s turned off and the light is on.

• Once the dough has risen, lightly dust the surface of the dough with some flour, then turn it out onto the counter.

• With floured, or damp hands, press the dough into a rectangle (this will degas it). Flip the dough over (floured side up), shape into a rough ball and leave to rest for 15 minutes.

• To shape the dough into a batard (an oblong loaf), lightly dust the work surface with flour. Flip the dough over (floured side down) and again flatten into a small rectangle, about the width of your tin.

• First fold the left side into the center, then repeat with the right side.

• Cup your hands like paddles and pull the top edge of the dough down, by an inch or so, in a tucking motion. Press gently to seal. As you do this, you should notice some tension being created making it visibly more taught and shiny.

• Repeat the roll, tuck, and seal method until your dough forms a short tubular shape.

• Seal the seam with the heel of your palm and pinch the ends together.

• Roll the dough back and forth a few times on the bench to even out the shape and create more tension.

• Using a bench scraper, transfer the dough seam-side down into a lightly greased loaf tin.

• Cover with a damp tea towel and leave to rise in a warm place for 60 to 90 minutes, or until the dough rises about 1 inch above the rim of the tin.

• To bake the loaf, preheat the oven to 250c fan (or as hot as your oven will go).

• Place a lipped tray on the lowest shelf of the oven and fill it two-thirds full with boiling water to create steam.

• Place the loaf on the middle shelf and bake for 45 minutes, until the crust is lovely and dark (well fired).

• Turn the oven off, open the oven door and allow the loaf to cool for 10-15 minutes.

• Remove the loaf from the oven and, if you have a spray bottle, spritz the loaf with water. This will help give it a shinier crust.

• Turn the loaf out onto a wire rack and leave too cool completely before slicing.

Store in an airtight container or wrapped in clean tea towel in cool place for up to 3 days.
Freeze the loaf or slices in freezer bags for up to 3 months. Slices can be toasted from frozen.

Things I Learnt

Flavour and Texture - I tested this loaf maybe five or six times, each time using slightly different ingredients and flour combinations to understand how they affected the final result.

Visually, the most striking loaf was made using a wheat variety called Mulika. It had excellent oven spring and sliced beautifully, producing a clean, well-structured crumb. However, despite its appealing look, the flavour wasn’t giving enough oomph, largely because I had kept the levels of fat, salt and sugar relatively low.

To achieve a softer, fluffier crumb, I experimented with higher percentages of fat, salt and sugar. I also wanted to compare how different flours performed using the same method. So I baked two loaves, one made using supermarket-bought strong white flour (Dove’s Farm), while the other used a sifted stoneground heritage wheat called Maris Widgeon (a long-straw variety traditionally associated with thatching, with a much lower protein content than Dove’s Farm).

A few external variables inevitably influenced the results. It was a cold, damp day, which slowed the proof time, and I hadn’t adjusted the water temperature to compensate (doh); slightly warmer water would have helped maintain fermentation. At the same time, I was in the middle of packing my house, which meant I was somewhat distracted and rushed (note to self, try not to multi-task whilst working). In hindsight, the Maris Widgeon loaf should have been mixed and proofed for slightly longer, while the Dove’s Farm loaf would have benefited from going into the oven sooner. Sure, look. You live and learn!

Side by side, the differences between the two loaves are clear. The Maris Widgeon loaf has a more speckled, darker crumb due to the amount of bran left in the flour after sifting during milling, a paler top crust likely influenced by fermentation and proofing, and slightly less height, possibly due to both fermentation, mixing and it’s level of protein. I think I should I have blended this flour with another stoneground flour that is slightly stronger (like Mulika or Holdfast) to help increase strength and volume.

The Dove’s Farm loaf, by contrast, showed impressive volume (kinda wild in comparison tbh), a very soft and fluffy crumb, and a noticeably whiter colour. This is likely due to its characteristics as a high-protein, white wheat, the wheat variety and its milling process. Although the brand does note that some of its flour is stoneground, but to me, it doesn’t appear to behave like the stoneground flours I’m used to working with - something worth investigating further.

Ultimately, the true test is the toast test. The Dove’s Farm loaf tasted the closest to a classic pan loaf (no surprise there) with a satisfying squidgy crumb. The Maris Widgeon loaf, however, offered a deeper, more complex taste. Something that would develop even further if I experimented with an overnight cold ferment. That’s for another time though!

All of this reinforces a simple fact: looks aren’t everything! But both loaves, in their own way, produce a delicious slice of toast, and what more could you ask for?

Hourglass or keyholing - I have tried everything to stop some of my loaves deflating their sides as they cool. I’ve even deep-dived on reddit. But honestly, I still can’t tell which suggestion helps prevent this from happening, as there are so many variables: over-proofing the loaf, underbaking, shaping, taking the loaf out of the tin too soon, leaving the loaf inside the tin for too long that it begins to steam itself, laying it on it’s side to cool, not mixing the dough for long enough, too high-hydration, tin dimensions. The possibilities are endless, but to me, it’s just a mild aesthetic problem.

Mushrooming - In my early tests a lot of my loaves ballooned over the tin as they baked, causing the internal structure of the loaf to collapse. This mushrooming often happens when there’s too much dough in the tin, or the dough has been over-proofed. With the help of Google, I found an easy way to calculate how much dough is the right amount for the tin I have:

The volume of the tin (ml) divided by 1.78 = the ideal dough weight in grams.

If changing the weight of dough to suit your tin, things to consider are: changing mix times and keeping an eye on the rate of fermentation (a larger volume of dough will retain heat for longer compared with a small volume of dough).

Notes to self

To me this is a perfect toast loaf. However, for a more sandwich focused loaf, I think it would benefit from a little more fat and overall richness. So when I revisit it in the future, using 100% milk for the hydration could improve the softness and flavour. It might also be nice to incorporate a portion of sourdough starter and retard the loaf overnight to develop more complexity. Swapping the caster sugar for honey could add a deeper sweetness, using lard instead of butter would give the loaf a more traditional character and a slightly softer crumb, and increasing the amount of wholemeal flour could enhance the overall flavour too.

Thank you for reading.

Cissy…xo

Right now, I am a kind of phoney. I only start work at 6am.

This is governed by a few factors; the small size of the bakery, and only having one Polin oven (a modular deck oven with a stone base). This means we’re at the mercy of space, fermentation and equipment. So all the bread has to be baked first, from around 3am.

From 6am to open, the pastry team bakes scones, pies, galettes and finishes garnishing layer cakes, cutting wibbly-wobbly custard tarts, and building sandwiches.

After interviewing Marly Klein, (32. The Realities of Kitchen Work Experience) where she shared her experiences working in some of London’s top restaurants and bakeries, I was reminded how valuable and fulfilling it is to learn new skills. So, despite having made some bread in previous jobs, I asked my boss, Anna Higham, if I could do a stage on bread to see what happens in the wee hours of the morning. Finally a chance to see what goes on within those Quince Bakery walls before 6am - only a year and a half later!

The early-morning alarm clock buzzes, but you’ve already woken up multiple times from the anxiety that you’re going to sleep through the vibrations. Something (touch wood) that has never happened before, but for some reason your body irrationally believes today is the day.

You roll out of bed. It’s cold and it’s dark, and you fumble for your clothes. Brush your teeth, wash your face, and head out the door. There’s no time for niceties, it’s strictly business at this time of night.

You slug caffeine as soon as you’re in the door, then you score the bread with a fresh lame and load it into the deck oven, steaming it every three minutes to help it spring and develop a shiny crust. In between the loads, you mix levains, bun dough and listen to the shipping forecast.

The bread comes out looking glossy like mahogany wood, and it sings a little song as the crust crackles as it cools. It smells amazing too, making your belly rumble. Your body is completely out of sync - you forced yourself to eat dinner at 5pm and swig valerian-root tea like sleep medicine.

Now the whole team is in, and the mixing of the dough (for the next day) begins.

The mixture of flour and water swims in the dive-arm mixer for a few minutes at a time, when the levain, salt and more water is added. But mostly it lies there relaxing for four hours before it’s taken out to relax just a little bit more.

Over time it visibly changes, from a shaggy mess to a supple, slimy muscle. If you dip your hand in water then into the dough, it feels like a soft putty enveloping your hand. This is how it talks to you. It tells you if it’s too hot or too cold, if it’s strong, or even if it’s thirsty. How you decide to respond to its messages affects the whole three-day process.

Of course, there’s SO much more to say, but I feel like I’d simply be repeating Jake’s guide to making a ‘perfect’ loaf. So if you want to know about how to make this style of bread, I recommend you read his article.

Instead I’ll share with you my very girl-coded notes that I took on my phone during my week of 3am starts:

• There’s nowhere to hide when you make bad bread.

• It is so hard to regulate your hormones as a woman, full stop. To have to regulate them whilst also working night shifts is even harder.

• I feel exhausted.

• I love learning new things, there’s a hunger but there’s an anxiety in getting things wrong.

• Having to scale up multiple bags of flour at the end of your shift is a fucking mind fuck! I HATE numbers!!!

• Why did I send that rage rant via text? I feel crazy!!!

• How do you translate to people that making bread isn’t prescriptive? Questions to ask yourself before making bread: What do you want from a loaf and what is your timeline?

• Tingling sensation and rash all over my hands from the salt.

There’s a theme here, right?

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Behind the paywall: more on what I learned waking up at 3am to bake bread, and a St Patrick’s Day adjacent recipe - a no-churn Guinness bread ice cream, which coincides with a Guinness bread recipe I’ve been developing for Nicola Lamb’s Kitchen Projects.

Paid subscribers keep this newsletter going (and fund my questionable decisions to wake up at 3am for bread research). Thank you.

If you’re not able to become a paid subscriber, but do want to know what it’s like working in a bakery, then you can read my article ‘What it’s really like being a baker’ (published by Lauren Linford of Home Truths and Home Hospitality). It reads something like this:

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Silly, neurotic, Capricorn me, obviously wasn’t going to leisurely lie in bed on my 31st birthday. No, I got up at the crack of dawn to go to a yoga class.

So unfortunately for Lucy, it was an early alarm. But, if I’d known she’d stayed up late baking me a birthday cake, which she then had to present to me in her jammies, whilst both our eyes were still blurry from sleep, I wouldn’t have got up so goddamn early! But blowing out candles and making a wish before the sun had risen, started my day in the most generous and abundant way. What’s more loving than baking for someone on their birthday? Baking for a baker. Thank you, Lucy.

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Lucy has now moved back to Margate, the place she loves and calls home. Naturally, being the sentimentalist I am, I baked the very cake she made me for the day she left. A sweet little memory because I hate goodbyes.

You must be wondering, “what kind of cake was it?”. It was a Torta di Capezzana (or olive oil cake) from Beaneaters and Bread Soup by Lori De Mori (of Towpath). A traditional Italian olive oil cake named after the famous Tenuta di Capezzana estate in Tuscany. It’s a simple pound cake recipe (equal parts flour, fat and sugar). It’s peppery from the olive oil and moist with citrus juice and zest. Its simplicity is what makes it so delicious. A word of advice: leave it by the kettle, that way every time you make a cup of tea you can have a perfect little slither. I dream of eating this in Italy, dipping it into cappuccino foam, and staring out at the Tuscan hills.

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Blood Orange and Olive Oil Cake Recipe

Serves 10 ish

Originally this cake was round, but I’ve adapted it to a loaf tin. My psychology tells me that eating many little slices of a loaf cake feels somehow less naughty than cutting thick wedges of a round one - don’t ask why!

In the full article, I share how I adapted the recipe quantity to suit the size of my tin (thanks to the magic of a spreadsheet), included a quick semi-candied citrus recipe, which is a perfect serving suggestion with whippy cream (as seen in pics), and shared a downloadable recipe PDF. And did I mention? It’s a one-bowl wonder!

Equipment

• 3lb loaf tin

Ingredients

• 100g egg, around 2 medium

• 200g golden caster sugar

• 200g plain flour, sifted

• 10g baking powder

• 5g fine sea salt

• 200ml olive oil

• 200ml whole milk

• Juice and zest of 2 blood oranges

Notes

• Swap supermarket plain flour for a sifted stoneground all-purpose or pastry flour. I used sifted stoneground April Bearded (the variety of wheat) from Landrace Milling, which is stocked at Quince Bakery.

• Use good-quality extra virgin olive oil. I know it can be expensive, but a high-quality product is worth it for this recipe. If possible, try sourcing from an independent supplier. What you pay for is provenance and distinct flavour, which can range from something quite peppery to more floral. For this cake, I used Trulli Ulivi, an olive oil from Puglia, kindly gifted to me from their new harvest.

• It’s citrus season so there’s an abundance of beautiful fruit bouncing around in the bakery, sourced from the Todoli Citrus Foundation via Shrub. For this cake, I used a blood orange variety called Moro.

  Don’t get too hung up on the blood oranges. Yes, they’re delicious, a joy to jam and insane to ogle at, but if you can’t find them, feel free to swap in other citrus fruits like grapefruits, lemons, or oranges (just make sure they’re unwaxed and smell fragrant when you hold them to your nose).

Method

Grease and line a 3lb loaf tin. Preheat the oven to 180c fan.

In a large bowl, whisk together the sugar and eggs with a balloon whisk for a few minutes, until creamy in colour. Pour in the olive oil, whole milk, and the juice and zest of the blood oranges. Give it another good whisk to combine.

Finally add in the dry ingredients. Gently whisk a few times to make sure everything is fully incorporated into a smooth, liquid batter. Don’t be overly vigorous here, a few whisks will do.

Pour the batter into the lined tin (it should fill up about two-thirds of the tin). Bake for 40-45 mins, until golden and set.

Remove from the oven and allow to cool completely before removing from the tin and slicing.

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In the full article, we walk through how to build a starter from scratch, how to keep it alive when you’re not baking, and how to rescue it when things go wrong, plus Jacob’s bakery-tested advice.

What is a starter?

A starter is a mixture of flour and water that when left at room temperature captures the wild yeasts and bacteria in its environment. Through consistent ‘feeds’ of flour and water, the mixture is able to maintain and build a robust microbial culture. During the fermentation of sourdough bread, the starter’s yeasts produce carbon dioxide, which helps the dough rise, and the bacteria creates lactic and acetic acids, which gives the bread a complex flavour.

- Jacob’s Notes

How can I make a starter?

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While I recover from much earlier starts than I’m used to (3am), my lovely friend Jacob McCarthy - chef and baker, formerly of Coombeshead Farm and Auberge de Chassingnolles - has written you a romantic guide to making sourdough bread.

Much love,
Cissy… xo

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In Search of the Perfect Loaf

Making, baking and sharing bread is one of the most beautiful and universal culinary expressions of time, place and the hands that make it. However, defining what makes a loaf of bread ‘perfect’ is near impossible. Obviously I’m going to try to explain it to you anyway, in the hope that it will encourage you to think more about the bread making process.

For a (dare I say it) artisan baker, the pursuit of making a ‘perfect’ loaf is a hopeful but almost impossible feat as no two things are ever the same on any given day; making the process equally liberating and dispiriting. Another challenge to perfection is everyone’s perception of what a perfect loaf is. The answer to this is that there aren’t any right ones but there are definitely a few that are wrong. These wrong ones are based on our distinct desire to label things into categories. Nowadays, it has become fashionable to bake sourdough loaves that have a large, airy open crumb with a big rise and spring, and with huge dog ears. To some, this looks great (after all it is aesthetically pleasing) but it has come to be a conventional image of what we think a good loaf of bread is. Personally, I find these types of loaves are almost always lacking in any flavour, and prize style over substance. This is because to achieve such airy loaves it generally requires a baker to use a high protein (usually above 12%) ‘strong’, roller milled flour, which on the whole is less delicious than local, weaker, stoneground flour (more on this later). A loaf with true depth comes not from what it looks like but from technique and a knowledge of fermentation.

Before defining what my perfect loaf looks like, I must preface that my experience of making bread resides solely in one kind of loaf, the kind I want to eat and the ones I’ve been taught to make at Coombeshead Farm. At the farm the loaves are in some ways in keeping with the tradition of a French pain de campagne (country loaf), with a nice dark glassy crust and a soft custardy crumb.

To me there are a few key characteristics that I want my bread to be. Most importantly and above all it should be delicious, that is truly the only important thing. Yet deliciousness is both a relatively simple and complex thing. With so few ingredients, bread is essentially just mixing three things together, leaving them for a while and then baking them. However, to strive for optimum deliciousness (and strive for perfection) there is a deep, never ending rabbit hole of decisions to consider, from ingredient choice to technique. Let’s begin with flour.

FLOUR

Flour has become a cheap, universally available commodity, giving billions of people access and the right to bread (which is a great thing). However, conventional, mass produced flour isn’t so great, and doesn’t taste of much; the wheat is stripped of all its goodness through the roller milling process which drastically reduces the quality of flour. On the other hand, the stone milling process strives to keep the germ, the starch and the bran combined (the three parts of the wheat berry). The bran gives an intensity of flavour, a wonderful aroma and a bitterness to the flour, whilst the perishable germ maintains oils and fats, which as we all know, equates to more flavour. When you start working with stoneground flours, you’ll develop a sense for these things, especially how much fattiness can be absorbed into a dough. If you already know, it is a peculiar but wonderful thing.

Before milling though, comes the farmer and there are a number of innovative and forward thinking farmers (and millers) throughout the UK and Ireland who are preserving traditional farming practices (and using traditional stone mills). Farmers who focus on soil health, biodiversity and regenerative farming practices produce even more delicious wheat. Nowhere is this more present than at Gothelney Farm in Somerset, where Fred thoughtfully grows heritage and landrace grains.2 These flours are often low in protein but rich in flavour and we’re lucky enough to work with them at Coombeshead Farm, which is a true pleasure and honour. What is so wonderful about working with Fred is that both the bakery and the farm push each other forward, towards a more delicious product that edges us closer and closer to perfection.

WATER

Often overlooked, water is the other important ingredient in making a delicious loaf. Much like people not wanting to drink gross tasting tap water, your dough doesn’t want to have gross water in it either! There are lots of questionable additives in tap water which can react peculiarly with the fermentation of your dough. At Coombeshead we’re lucky enough to have a well which gives us deliciously pure, filtered water. At home you too should use filtered water when making sourdough bread. Or, if you’re feeling like a true romantic, you could source it from your local mountain spring. Yes, I know this is nerdy, but it will make your bread tastier which is, of course, the ultimate goal.

STARTER

Your starter, or ‘mother’, is also not to be overlooked. It is alive and it is temperamental! A starter is a mixture of flour and water that when left at room temperature captures the wild yeasts and bacteria in its environment. Through consistent ‘feeds’ of flour and water, the mixture is able to maintain and build a robust microbial culture. During the fermentation of sourdough bread, the starter’s yeasts produce carbon dioxide, which helps the dough rise, and the bacteria creates lactic and acetic acids, which gives the bread a complex flavour.

When building your starter, you should be mindful of what flour you use to ‘feed’ it as it will create different flavour profiles. The more wholemeal flour you use the more it will taste like lactic acid, like that of yoghurt or other fermented dairies. If you opt for a whiter flour it will taste more acetic (vinegary), like sour fruit. The main challenge is not to over ferment your starter. It is best to use it when it is still young and in the beginning stages of its fermentation or else your loaf will be overly sour, which despite the name, is not what we want. I prefer using a wholemeal starter that is quite dry as it is delicious and gives you more control over fermentation.

SALT

I don’t have much to say about salt, just use fine sea salt. Please don’t use table salt for anything, it’s gross.

TECHNIQUE

The second part is a more tricky and never-ending thing. The skill and technique of making a delicious loaf is something that requires a lot of thought. The technique we follow at Coombeshead is developed from a wizard baker in the Appalachian hills (whose identity I cannot divulge for pure baking secrecy). He likens the process of developing strength in softer and weaker flours to building a muscle, whereby you give the dough short bursts of agitation and long periods of rest in order to ‘build up’ the muscle. This technique also allows you to add a lot of water to the mix during these short bursts. Despite my hatred of numeracy when it comes to baking, this technique has in the past allowed us to reach hydrations of over 100% using some of the lowest protein wheat in the UK - bonkers!

Lots of people get hung up on their bread shaping, stitching and folding technique. Of course it can be a bit tricky at first but once you’ve shaped a few hundred loaves it becomes second nature! So stick at it. Practice makes perfect.

FERMENTATION

Because bread is alive, we are required to constantly think about how to deal with it as a living product that is ever changing, chiefly due to fermentation. The fermentation of bread will initially be dictated by the quality of the flour and how freshly milled it is as well as its structure. Then it will react to the temperature and humidity of its environment, and even to the movement and the touch of the baker. These factors change day by day, making no two doughs ever the same.

BEING REACTIONARY

Lots of people will get muddled up by the temperature of their dough or the percentage of hydration, as well as the room temperature and percentage of protein in their flour. In my view, this is futile. It inhibits the baker from reacting instinctively and developing a true ‘feel’ for the dough. When working with a living, ever-changing product, you must learn to be adaptable; to adjust your thinking according to what the dough needs and wants. Many bakers record all this data like temperature, hydration and protein percentage, only to not do anything about it. It becomes a box-ticking exercise, a sort of mental offloading of what’s happening in front of you, which ultimately distracts you from being present and focused. Recipes that give you precise temperatures and timings for your fermentation can be helpful, but fermentation can differ vastly depending on the environment of the dough. Once you begin to get a feel for the dough it will always tell you what it needs; whether to relax, to be agitated, if it wants a splash of water, or to be covered so it can warm up and speed up its fermentation.

Fermentation is inconsistent by nature. It requires an open mindset and a level of patience and acceptance that things will go wrong. But that’s how you learn the dough’s limits by understanding how to push the fermentation to the edge, which is where the most delicious bread is made.

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BAKING

So after having figured out your dough and the fermentation, the next step is baking. This too, is another tricky concept that also requires an understanding of what your dough wants. Mainly a very hot oven with lots of steam. The Dutch oven method that lots of home bakers use is pretty foolproof and very accessible, though a deeper or lighter score will depend on the dough itself.

At the bakery we always strive for a loaf that ‘relaxes’ when it’s baked as it’s a sign you have nailed the hydration and fermentation, and pushed everything to its possible limit. For this reason, some people are judgmental about our bread looking flat, but they seem to neglect the fact that it’s more delicious than a dry ass tall loaf of bread.

The steam during the initial stage of the bake is important in order to form a nice crust as it cools down the exterior of the dough and allows for more oven spring. This again will be dependent on how nicely fermented and hydrated your dough is, the drier and more under-fermented your dough, the more steam you are likely to need. This is quite hard to achieve if you are baking in a Dutch oven as it’s rather difficult to add steam to a sealed chamber that’s rather hot. But if you are baking in a deck oven, this is made easy by the in-built steam injection system.

The colour of the loaf and how well baked it is, is a controversial issue. In my opinion, pushing a loaf a darker colour will add more caramel and bitter notes to it, which I find more delicious but some opinionated people would disagree.

Those are my musings. Perhaps a rather opaque and most likely unhelpful take on the bread making process. Still, I hope it encourages you to think more deeply about your own bread, paying closer attention to your dough and what it wants.

In the end, there’s no such thing as a perfect loaf. In fact, the very idea is preposterous and anyone who is willing to write this much about it, probably shouldn’t be humoured.

There are lots of mills around the UK and Ireland producing excellent quality stoneground flour such as:

• Landrace Milling

• Oak Forest Mills

• Caan Stone Mill

• Gilchesters Organics

• Yorkshire Organic Mill

• Offley Mill

• Field Bakery and Mill

Is it too late to say Happy New Year? Na, fuck it. Happy New Year to you all!

Ok, we’re back. It’s the year of the horse; a year that signifies breakthroughs, freedom and forward momentum - exciting! I’m pulling on my cowboy boots and thinking about what I can let go of that no longer serves me and get clearer on what does. But before I gallop full steam ahead, I’m remembering to first remain slow, reflective and to plant seeds that will eventually blossom in the Spring. After all, the earth is still only just reemerging with light. (This is the art of wintering).

One of the seeds I’m planting this winter is to do with Roll With It. Over the last twelve months I’m proud to say I’ve consistently released two newsletters each month. Some have been collaborations and interviews, some City guides, some ingredient-led deep dives, and most have been accompanied with a recipe (or two). In the grand scheme of things, this doesn’t sound like much, right? Considering I also work a full time job, hustle other writing projects, teach, and attempt to do all those necessary adult things that keep you vaguely sane, I think it’s pretty good going. And all made possible by you lovely lot! Thank you.

Now though, I feel as if something needs to change so that I can have a more well-balanced life. (Mostly though to keep my imagination intact).

What does this mean for my newsletter then? Well to be honest, I’m not 100% sure, as I haven’t fully figured it out yet. Is this me committing career suicide as I shock, horror, don’t have a slick business plan, or bloody idea how to even use this platform, or make a goddamn reel!? Well maybe. But I’m hoping you trust me enough to stick around to see how it evolves. Coz if we’re not evolving, what are we doing?

What I am thinking, is shifting Roll With It towards a more reflective space; a few less recipes, a few more teaching-led practices, a few more chats with people in my industry; just a bit more ‘me’ and less ‘me’ trying to fit into a well-oiled machine. The newsletters will still be monthly and the small paid tier will remain on some articles. Instead of paying for more content and more recipes, you’re supporting my thinking, mentoring and approach to baking, cooking and life, which helps keep my work rooted in care. Which has always been my approach; sustainability, joy and quality over quantity. I know this is literally the exact opposite of what the algorithm wants me to do, but who cares!

If you fancy, I’d love for you to follow my journey.

Much love,

Cissy…xo

This month’s article(s) will be all about bread. Subscribe for more.

Welcome to the final RWI Some More of the year! Thank you so much for your support over the last 12 months. When I decided to turn part of my newsletter into a paid subscription (in February), I was a little apprehensive that no-one would sign up, but you did and for that I am truly thankful.

By subscribing to receive paid content, you’ve helped me cover the costs of ingredients so I can properly recipe test. In the future, I hope your support will also allow me to pay myself for the work that goes into the newsletter, as well as those talented contributors who bring valued thoughts and creativity to these pages.

It’s not easy to compete with other Substacks, where this work is a full-time job, so if you’ve found me (a needle in a very large haystack) thank you, thank you, thank you.

Wishing you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year for 2026!

Lots of Love,

Cissy…xo

The Evolution of this Dessert

This time last year I really wanted to develop a Bûche de Noël recipe for my newsletter. I did make an attempt at it; I baked a chocolate sponge and laboriously stirred a chestnut jam (following my Vanilla Jam recipe), which I then folded through a luscious whipped cream, and sandwiched between the rolled sponge. When I ate it, the sponge was tough and the balance of flavours was, in my opinion, nothing to write home about. So I parked the idea. Now, a whole year later, the idea still plunges into my mind. How can I make this work in a way I know how? Firstly, I’ve decided to scrap the whole Swiss roll setup. Instead, I’m honing in on the flavour that I wanted to spotlight in the first place. Chestnuts.

Chestnuts, unlike most other nuts, are low in fat and high in starch. When roasted, the starches turn to sugar, naturally bringing out the nut’s sweet flavour as well as its creamy, soft texture. They’re a perfect Autumn nut that pairs well with other earthy ingredients found this time of year, like game and cabbage.

They have particularly strong Christmas connotations, not just because of the famous Christmas song, but because they were once a traditional Victorian street food that became synonymous with the warmth and generosity of the season. Pleasant burnt caramel wafts from chestnuts roasting on an open fire can still be found this time of year if you take a stroll along the banks of the Thames or visit European Christmas markets.

Not only eaten alone, chestnuts are also part of classic Christmas dishes like stuffing, roasted brussels sprouts with lardons, of course in Bûche de Noël and the now less fashionable Nesserolde Pudding (a frozen sweet chestnut custard with candied peel and rum folded through, set in a copper jelly mould).

Most famously though, chestnuts are used in the classic French dessert Mont Blanc. The name translates as ‘white mountain’ and the dish is designed to look like the snow-capped mountains in the alps, with its meringue base that’s topped with whipped cream and piled high with strands of sweet chestnut puree.

At Quince Bakery this year, I helped develop a version of a Louise Cake for our counter selection. Traditionally this New Zealand cake consists of a thin sponge, a layer of raspberry jam, and a layer of coconut meringue. For us at the bakery, these layers have become a versatile blueprint for using seasonal ingredients and a handy way to use leftover egg whites. Versions at the bakery have included flavours such as clementine leaf sugar and citrus curd, Gariguette strawberry and garden rhubarb, blackcurrant leaf sugar and blackcurrant compote, peach melba, and fig leaf sugar.

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Welcome to the final Roll With It of the year! Thank you so much for your support over the last 12 months. Your subscription has kept me going and for that I am truly thankful.

This newsletter is all about Christmas. Duh! However, as this is one of the busiest times of the year at the Bakery, and my wrists are a little tired from all the mince pie pastry rolling, I’m going to share some easy (and perhaps not super traditional) Christmas bakes; my go-to ginger biscuit and my take on the classic French dessert the Mont Blanc.

Let’s start with biscuits. For the last few years I’ve been putting together Christmas biscuit boxes for my nearest and dearest. Each year the lineup changes slightly, with new biscuits and cookies taking centre stage. There have been mini mince pie bites, oat cookies, double choc chip cookies, zesty clementine shortbread, and nutty millionaire’s bars. But one biscuit always makes the cut (and is the first to disappear), the ginger biscuit.

These are somewhere between a traditional, crunchy gingernut and a dark, chewy molasses cookie, with little nuggets of candied stem ginger in each bite. One year, I even dipped them in chocolate. Pretty irresistible to be honest!

Best of all, they are super easy to make. No stand mixer needed, just a good old fashioned mixing bowl and some arm muscle. Perfect for festive baking (or all year round), gifting or even sneaking into your freezer for future biscuit eating emergencies.

Over on RWI Some More I’ll be sharing a more elegant party-table dessert, my take on a Mont Blanc (reinvented as a chestnut meringue cake). What is it, you ask? Imagine a light, nutty sponge made with chestnut flour, crowned with a pillowy meringue top, then finished with clouds of chestnut whipped cream. Decadent? Absolutely. Difficult? Hardly. There are one or two technical steps, but I’ve given easy substitutions if you can’t be arsed (which is understandable this time of year).

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I’m also sharing a little interview with my Australian bestie, Clara Hulmes (wine seller extraordinaire for Grapecircus in Dublin), who explains why pavlova reigns supreme as Australia’s ultimate Christmas dessert, and reveals the bottles she’ll be pouring for her guests this year.

Wishing you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year for 2026!

Lots of Love,

Cissy…xo

Ginger Biscuit Recipe

Makes 16 biscuits + involves chilling time

Ingredients

• 160g unsalted butter, softened

• 150g soft brown sugar

• 75g treacle

• 1 egg

• 300g plain flour

• 3g fine sea salt

• 2g ground cinnamon

• 5g ground ginger

• 2g ground nutmeg

• 10g bicarbonate of soda

• 100g stem ginger, drained from syrup and roughly chopped

• Demerara sugar, for rolling

Substitutions:

• You can swap treacle for honey, but the flavour and colour will be lighter and less rich.

• Swap supermarket plain flour for a sifted stoneground all-purpose or pastry flour (from Stoate’s, Shipton Mill, or your local bakery equivalent). I used sifted stoneground April Bearded (the variety of wheat) from Landrace Milling, which is stocked at Quince Bakery.

Method

1. In a large mixing bowl, use a firm spatula or wooden spoon to cream together the soft butter, sugar and treacle for 5 minutes until pale.

2. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a spatula, then add the egg and beat until fully incorporated.

3. Add in the flour, bicarbonate of soda, salt and spices, and fold until just combined.

4. Add in the chopped stem ginger, and mix until evenly distributed and the dough is smooth.

5. For best results, refrigerate the dough overnight. If you’re short on time, refrigerate until it’s at least firm to the touch.

6. Preheat the oven to 180c fan. Line 2 large baking trays with baking parchment.

7. Using a dessert spoon, or cookie scoop, portion the chilled dough into 50g pieces, lining them up on one of the prepared trays. Then use the palm of your hands to roll each piece into a smooth ball.

8. Pour some demerara sugar into a small bowl. Roll each ball into the bowl until completely coated, then return to the tray.

9. Once all biscuits are coated in sugar, divide them evenly between the 2 trays, leaving space between each.

10. Bake for 14-16 minutes.

11. Remove from the oven and allow the biscuits to cool on the tray. They will look soft in the centre, with a golden crust and cracked finish. They will firm up as they cool.

Notes:

• If you don’t want to bake all the cookies at once, store them in a ziplock bag or lidded container in the freezer. Bake directly from frozen.

A little plea from me to you. If you like this week’s newsletter, or any other for that matter, I’d love for you to add a like or comment below and perhaps share it with someone who might also enjoy it. A lot of time and love goes into my work and I would really appreciate all the support I can get so I can keep it going. Thank you so much.

If you’re stumbling across this article, welcome! This recipe is a follow-up to my previous conversation with my friend Laure, 33. The Reality of Life After the Kitchen. In the article, we chat about what it means to step away from the intense rhythm of kitchen life into a new career outside of hospitality. I’d love for you to read it before diving into this delicious Baked Chocolate and Sour Cherry Tart.

A note from Laure…

This tart is inspired by a dessert that my infinitely talented boss Suzi Mahon came up with at Mountain. It’s incredibly rich and decadent, and there was rarely a service where it didn’t completely sell out. On the occasion that it didn’t, a small line of hungry chefs would quickly appear in the kitchen, eager to get a bite of the last slice.

The tart was topped with a set ganache made using a house-made malt extract and served alongside boozy soaked prunes, a perfect balance to the tart’s deep, chocolate intensity. The base was made with einkorn flour from either Gilchesters or Field Bakery. Einkorn is an ancient grain that brought an extra layer of flavour and character to each bite.

For this version, Cissy has used wholegrain rye flour in the base to bring out the subtle cocoa notes that develop in this flour during the bake. And has added a layer of sharp sour cherries to cut through the tart’s intense, brownie-like chocolate filling. It’s very simple to make and perfect for sharing with a crowd.

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Welcome to another edition of Roll With It. I hope you’re having a lovely month so far.

My November has been beautiful. It’s been full of friends and meals out, both a real treat. And while the cold turn has frozen my bones, it has bought frosty, clear blue skies full of stillness, which I love. It’s also been a month of inspiring conversations, and these are something I’d like to continue to draw on in my newsletters, as I feel it’s important to share the voices and perspectives of others in the industry. (I’m finally living out my childhood dreams of being a journalist!).

Let’s get into it.

Life is full of dualities, you can’t have one without the other. So, in opposition to my conversation with Marly last month (see 32. The Realities of Kitchen Work Experience), who is just beginning her journey as a chef, this interview offers a look at the other side of that story - what it’s like to step away from the kitchen after years inside it.

For this, I spoke with my friend and former colleague, Laure, who I first met at Quince Bakery last year. Since then, Laure and I have become close friends, and I’ve watched her move on from the food industry to begin a new chapter working at a research institute, while also embarking on a five-year masters degree training to be an Integrative Psychotherapist.

Our conversation explores what it means to leave behind the intensity and rhythm of kitchen life, how those experiences shape who you are, and what it takes to get accustomed to life outside the kitchen walls.

I hope you enjoy.

Much love,

Cissy…xo

My Conversation with Laure

Laure, thanks so much for chatting with me. We’ve known each other since our Quince Bakery days, but for everyone else, can you give a little rundown of your kitchen-life journey? How did you get into it, and where has it taken you?

Thanks so much for having me! Of course. I started out working part-time in a bakery during my undergraduate degree, and with that (very minimal) experience, I went on to work as a pastry CDP (chef de partie) at Mountain Restaurant (a Michelin starred restaurant in the heart of Soho, focusing on Basque style cooking using Welsh ingredients). After two years there, I then joined Quince Bakery as a baker. Not long after I jumped off the hospitality train to work an office job while I study and train for my masters.

I think the original appeal of wanting to become a ‘proper’ chef really came after spending a few dull years working behind a desk. My partner works in hospitality, and he radiated this enthusiasm and sense of camaraderie with his colleagues that I felt was lacking in my life. That’s ultimately what drew me into kitchen life.

Wow, that’s some jump! Can you paint us a picture of what it was like to work at Mountain? You must have been there when they were awarded their first Michelin star. Did that change the energy at all?

To be honest, I felt pretty out of my depth starting out at Mountain because it was the first time I’d stepped foot in a restaurant kitchen. It’s a huge establishment which seats 100 people over two floors, is open for lunch and dinner 7 days a week and at the time employed over 30 chefs. It felt like a machine! The pastry section was a little haven from this though because it was a smaller and predominantly female team. Our service bench was separate from the main kitchen, although we did our prep with everyone else. Most of the chefs worked 5 shifts which clocked in at over 50 hours a week. Eventually I asked to cut down my hours, but there was still a big physical toll. Sometimes I’d get home from an evening shift at 1am just to start again at 8am the next day, or work doubles which were over 15 hours!

I loved this time in my life though. We were given a lot of freedom with the menu, from choosing ingredients, to pitching ideas and recipe testing. I loved talking through new dishes with the team at our briefings, and hearing everyone’s squeals of delight when I came upstairs with something new to try.

Working in Soho was exciting in its own right. The feeling of leaving work and being in the bustle of central London was great. In the summer I would cycle home, riding on the leftover adrenaline from service. I felt so free!

When the restaurant was awarded its first Michelin star the workload had already begun to ramp up, and things only got busier as more famous and influential people started coming through the doors. I’ll never forget the day I served Doja Cat a chocolate sorbet I made! On the day the star was announced, we celebrated with champagne and cake and it felt like a huge achievement. Our jobs were often quite gruelling and relentless, and so we really came together in these moments. We definitely got busier after the star but there was also a collective sigh of relief. It wasn’t something we were superficially chasing; the attitude was very much, ‘let’s just keep doing what we’re doing’.

Going from working in a Michelin starred restaurant to a bakery must have been a noticeable change then, especially in terms of your sleep schedule. Did you find that?

Surprisingly, working in a bakery felt way more considered and careful than a restaurant. If we made dodgy loaves of bread or dodgy batches of ice cream we’d often have to use it for service anyway just because time wouldn’t allow us to fix it. In a small bakery though the margin for error was lower, which I think was a good thing in terms of my learning, but it did make me a little more cautious. So in terms of the pace of work, it definitely did feel different. I also sometimes missed the loudness and boisterousness of being in a restaurant as it often kept me going on days when I felt particularly tired or unmotivated. And yes, then there were the early mornings which I never did manage to crack!

Truthfully it sounds like on the whole you had a great time working in kitchens, which begs the question, why did you decide to leave them? Do you think it was always an inevitable chapter for you?

In many ways, leaving the kitchen did feel inevitable. I wouldn’t have said so at the time, but I now realise I’m probably not cut out to be a baker or chef. You have to be truly obsessed with food and the intricacies of the industry for it to feel sustainable, in a way that other jobs don’t demand. It’s a way of life that consumes everything and if you don’t love it completely, resentment can build up, as it means you have to sideline other parts of your life. I loved cheffing, but for me I missed having enough time off to reset or spend time with my friends and family, not being financially stable, and engaging with things beyond food. Over time this resentment and exhaustion meant I had to call it a day.

My decision to leave was at the time quite spontaneous, as I handed in my notice without another job lined up. I had already begun thinking about enrolling in my therapist training though, which requires a small fortune and energy I wouldn’t have had if I stayed in kitchens. In some ways it felt unfair that I had to choose between a tactile, sensory job that I loved but wouldn’t allow me to be anything else outside of it, and a job that paid the bills but allowed me to learn a different skill set alongside it. I know some people do manage to work in hospitality while also pursuing other passions, but I always felt the culture for chefs is all-or-nothing.

I totally understand this feeling of things being unfair. I often think about leaving the industry to pursue an ‘easier’ job that is (on paper) less taxing and more financially viable. Was this allure something that clinched your decision to leave?

Absolutely! Cheffing always felt like a risky thing to do because I’m not someone with a lot of financial freedom. Working in a kitchen meant I wasn’t able to save, and I ended up spending more on travel, eating out and generally trying to stay sane. In these jobs, there’s an unavoidable ceiling to how much you can get paid anyway and not a lot of room for negotiation within that metaphorical room. I knew that it would take me years to start earning even just a little bit more money, and with more money came more responsibility and longer hours.

I’m not exactly earning the big bucks where I work now, but at least I know there’s a progression plan for me. In less than a few years I’ll be earning more money and I already have things like decent annual leave, a benefits package, and other forms of job security that are rare in hospitality. Starting a family isn’t on my agenda any time soon but I did think about the practicalities of this while I was cheffing and it seemed like a complete impossibility. For the few women that do manage to be working mums in kitchens, I literally have no idea how you do it; absolute superwomen!

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Amen to that!

We can establish kitchens are totally different working environments to offices then. Have you found it hard to get accustomed to this new way of life?

I definitely went through a period of imposter syndrome in my new job. I had to adjust to office and email speak, as well as having to sit at my desk all day, which I’m still not totally at ease with. However, the novelty of finishing at a ‘normal’ time, working from home two days a week and having my weekends back hasn’t worn off. I guess the hardest thing I’m still struggling with is exercise. I’m not used to moving so little. Kitchens gave me built-in activity; thousands of steps a day, lifting 25kg bags of flour, hauling heavy pans and pots. Now everything feels a little fragmented. I have to cook, shop, exercise, and eat separately. I miss when all of that was folded into my work; life flowed better and took up less mental space.

Did you not find all that movement physically exhausting? You must have so much more energy now? That must be great for your creativity.

To be honest, I’m experiencing a new kind of exhaustion with my desk job. I’m less physically sore but sitting all day brings its own aches and pains. It feels really unnatural to sit still for most of the day, almost on a primal level, I feel like I’m meant to move. I also feel I’m becoming more insular in a way. I underestimated how restrained office workplace culture is in comparison to the energy and camaraderie of a kitchen team. It can leave me feeling a bit disconnected.

Creatively, things feel a little harder too actually. When I worked in kitchens, I wasn’t on screens all day, so I craved writing before or after work. Now everything requires a screen, and I’m trying to break the habit of shifting from a ‘good’ screen (work) to a ‘bad’ screen (down time, phone and TV). Now my life feels very cognitive, so I sometimes feel a bit stifled creatively.

I get this. Working in small, often stressful spaces for ten or more hours a day means your colleagues become like family, whether you like it or not, and that can really blur professional boundaries. Now that you’re in a more traditional office environment, do you feel like professionalism is ultimately a good thing?

For the most part, yes. In an office conversations are surface level and incredibly professional, which feels healthy and boundaried, if sometimes a bit artificial. In comparison, in hospitality jobs, you spend so much time with your colleagues inside and outside work, that your lives become deeply entwined. It makes for an unmatched closeness, where venting when you’re exhausted can feel really cathartic and strengthens those relationships. I actually really loved that closeness but there were times when I wasn’t always honest with my colleagues because I wanted to keep some boundaries. Instead, I adopted the approach of being a good listener and not necessarily sharing a lot about myself.

I miss being part of that hospitality ‘cult’ though. It’s an enclosed and defensive bubble that keeps you going. There’s this unsaid mentality that you’re all in it together and no one outside of it will ever understand what it’s like until they’re in it. The shared living psychology of hospitality workers is real and it kind of feels like once you’re out of it, you’re out!

Is there anything that you really don’t miss about working in kitchens?

I really don’t miss the general lack of employee support. I now have 1:1 meetings with my boss at the same time each week, mostly to talk about how I’m doing in general, which might sound like overkill but it at least gives the illusion that I’m really cared for as an employee. This wasn’t something I got when I worked in the hospitality industry, and I often felt like I had to fend for myself. It sometimes felt like my professional growth depended solely on my ability to get my head down, rather than learn from a supportive environment around me. I still don’t entirely understand why so many businesses in the hospitality industry lack the basic processes that make work sustainable, like a functioning HR department and regular training and check-ins. These seem like the systems that actually keep people in their jobs.

I also struggled to feel inspired by senior leadership in kitchens. Like any industry, those with the most power can be a little unpredictable, but this felt like it was compounded in kitchens. The amount of responsibility placed on these people combined with an expectation that they work the longest hours and without any real managerial training often led to poor leadership. I learnt the most from people in the middle ranks or people I shared a job title with.

Aside from things already mentioned, I also don’t miss the unsociable hours, having very little control over my weekly schedule, the guilt and logistical nightmare of taking a sick day and on a lighter note, the smell and grime of the kitchen in my hair and clothes. Once I woke up to find a fish scale on my pillow next to me, and I’m absolutely sure I’ve never scaled a fish! Yuck.

Ewwwww… Ok but you’ve gotta miss staff meals right? Working in kitchens guarantees you’re surrounded by delicious food all day, with normally 1 or 2 meals supplied for you. What’s it been like having to make your every meal? Do you have your packed lunch down to a T?

I REALLY miss staff food! At Mountain, there was a huge emphasis put on making a great staff meal, so most days I would eat a beautifully made plate of food, far better than anything I could ever make myself after an exhausting day. Those 3pm meals after lunch service genuinely revived me and kept me full for most of the day, as well as the constant snacking on leftovers (Cissy can confirm the story about me eating an ungodly amount of leftover chocolate mousse one time). Back then I hardly spent any money on food, and now I spend much more. Buying good quality, seasonal ingredients is incredibly expensive, but after cooking with them and understanding the value of them it can feel strange or even hypocritical reverting back to affordable supermarket ingredients.

I also dread lunchtimes in the office. It is an unavoidably depressing experience. There’s something so sad about a packed lunch and even sadder about a meal deal. In these moments I do end up doing a bit of gazing out the office window wondering whether I’ve made a huge mistake…

If you thought you had made a mistake and wanted to go back to working in kitchens, is there anything you wish you could have told your younger self, something that could make that transition easier?

If I could do it all again, which I definitely would, I’d tell myself to be more honest and inquisitive. When I started, I was essentially mute, unsure if kitchen etiquette allowed me to chat and ask questions. This meant I made a lot of mistakes, which I hoped I could cover up rather than asking for clarification, owning up to a mistake or just saying ‘I don’t understand’. I was laughing recently about a time I ran to the bathroom to Google what a maryse (pronounced mah-reese) was because I didn’t want to admit I had no idea - turns out it’s a rubber spatula for anyone wondering! I definitely would’ve learnt more if I’d dropped my defenses.

I’d also tell myself that it’s ok to be shy and introverted, but to be prepared for how boisterous everyone else might be. I spent a lot of time beating myself up for not being one of the louder voices in the kitchen, even though that’s not naturally who I am. I also would tell myself to start in a smaller, female led kitchen. It probably would’ve been a more supportive environment for me to learn and grow.

Finally, what words of wisdom would you give to someone looking to change careers and start working in kitchens, as well as those considering leaving the industry?

If you want to start working in a kitchen, try not to romanticise the idea of it too much. I brushed off a few warnings about how gruelling it would be, caught up in a fantasy of chef life. I didn’t consider how my natural tendencies of being quite sensitive, low in stamina, easily overstimulated, and loving cooking but not living for it, would play out, or how my other interests would get neglected. If you’re high-energy, properly in love with food, and have a solid pain tolerance then you’ll probably thrive in a kitchen. Either way, it will be an exciting and beautiful time in your life, even if it’s not forever.

The same advice applies to anyone thinking about leaving hospitality; don’t idealise work outside the kitchen. Office jobs and other career paths come with their own challenges and you’ll probably really miss the tactile rhythm of kitchen life. Figuring out what the right job is for you is really hard. Most importantly though, I think it’s crucial to find a job that allows you to live your life and be a full person outside of it.

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In the next edition of RWI Some More, Laure will be sharing a recipe for a Baked Chocolate and Sour Cherry Tart, inspired by her favourite dish to make (and eat) at Mountain. Sign up to get it!

Each week at Quince Bakery there is a selection of seasonal sweet and savoury scones on offer. From flavours like toasted oat and honey, strawberry and marzipan, and apple crumble, to shredded sprout tops, devilled cheese, and roast carrots with Wensleydale. They sit proud on the counter and are an extremely popular item. Marly (our beloved customer and this month’s guest writer) is a diehard fan! So it would be rude to not include a recipe to accompany her work.

To keep things simple I haven’t included any inclusions to this recipe because making a good scone is actually incredibly hard! I’m sure you’ve experienced eating a crumbly, dry or brick-like one. It’s not nice! To learn how to keep a scone light and fluffy it’s best to start with a base dough that you can master and then adapt. Then you can start exploring the incorporation of other ingredients or even laminating the dough (the process of folding the dough over on itself a number of times to create flaky layers), which is what we do at work. (In some ways this makes them more like an American biscuit). The key things to remember when making scones is to use the best ingredients you can find (it is only a few after all), keep all of your ingredients extremely cold, work fast and try to not overwork the dough. Sounds easy right?

I will guide you through it below and have included a few suggestions on how to level-up.

I hope you enjoy.

Much love,

Cissy…xo

Wholemeal Scone Recipe

Makes 6 large

Ingredients

• 300g plain flour (I used a heritage spring wheat called April Bearded - a sifted stoneground flour milled at Landrace Milling)

• 300g wholemeal flour, coarsely sifted (I used a heritage population wheat called Miller’s Choice - a wholemeal stoneground flour milled at Landrace Milling)

• 25g baking powder

• 75g golden caster sugar

• 5g fine sea salt

• 95g cold unsalted butter, coarsely grated

• 250ml whole milk

• 190ml buttermilk

Plus

• egg wash or extra milk for brushing

• demerara sugar for sprinkling

Method

1. In a large mixing bowl whisk together the flours, baking powder, sugar and salt until well combined. (If it’s a hot day, place this in the fridge whilst you prepare the rest of your ingredients).

2. Using the coarse side of a box grater, grate the cold butter onto a plate. (If you want, you can grate frozen butter to keep everything extra cold).

3. Using your fingertips, gently rub the grated butter into the bowl of dries, until all the flakes of butter are coated in flour and evenly distributed, around 2 minutes.

4. In a measuring jug, whisk together the milk and buttermilk.

5. Make a well in the centre of the bowl of dries. Then pour in ⅔ of the combined dairy and gently mix until a dough starts to form.

6. Pour in the remaining ⅓ dairy and mix until there are no more dry pockets of flour but the dough is still shaggy.

7. Cover the bowl and chill it in the fridge for 1 hour.

8. Line a baking tray with paper.

9. Remove the dough from the fridge and turn it out onto a lightly floured work surface.

10. Use a rolling pin, or your hands, gently flatten the dough into a large rectangle around 2 inches thick.

11. Using a sharp knife (a serrated pastry knife is best) cut the dough into 6 equal pieces. They should be around 2 x 2 inches and weigh around 200-220g each.

12. Place them upside down on the prepared baking tray.

13. Rest the scones in the fridge for 30 minutes - 1 hour (or overnight).

14. Preheat the oven to 220c fan.

15. Brush the chilled scones with a little beaten egg yolk or milk, then lightly sprinkle with demerara sugar.

16. Turn the oven down to 200c fan and bake the scones for 20-25 minutes, or until risen and golden.

17. Remove from the oven and allow to cool.

Storage:

• You can store the shaped, unbaked scones in the fridge for 24 hours before baking. Or, bake them from frozen.

• Baked scones will keep for 2-3 days in an airtight container.

• To refresh, warm in an oven preheated to 180c (fan) for 15 minutes.

How to Level Up…

Laminating

To level up your scones, you can laminate them to create an extremely flaky dough.

To do this follow the recipe as above until step 9. Then jump in here.

10. Use a rolling pin, or your hands, to gently flatten the dough into a thin rectangle around 1 inch thick.

11. Divide the dough into 3 equal pieces and stack one on top of the other, until you have a high stack.

12. Use a rolling pin, or your hands, to gently flatten the dough into a large rectangle around 2 inches thick.

13. Using a sharp knife (a serrated pastry knife is best) trim each edge of your rectangle. Keep and set these pieces of trim aside.

14. Cut the remaining dough into 5 or 6 equal pieces. They should be around 2 by 2 inches and weigh around 200-220g each.

15. Re-roll any scraps.

16. Place them upside down on the prepared baking tray.

17. Rest the scones in the fridge for 30 minutes - 1 hour (or overnight).

18. Preheat the oven to 220c fan.

19. Brush the chilled scones with a little beaten egg yolk or milk, then lightly sprinkle with demerara sugar.

20. Turn the oven down to 200c fan and bake the scones for 20-25 minutes, or until risen and golden.

21. Remove from the oven and allow to cool.

Inclusions

Once you’ve mastered your base dough, you can then start experimenting with flavoured scones. To do this we can use our baker’s percentages to help us, as we don’t want to add inclusions to our dough willy-nilly, as a random weight of ingredients will affect the structure of the dough. Don’t worry - I’ve done the hard work for you.

This is our current recipe.

To add inclusions we can input the percentage amount we want (around 20%).

When incorporating additional ingredients to your dough, things to consider are:

• when to incorporate into your dough: mix the inclusions after step 2 (adding the butter).

• how wet or dry the inclusion is: hold back or add more dairy to the dough depending on whether your inclusions hold any liquid. For example, roasted tomatoes will leach juices as they cool. Adding this to the dough will count as a portion of your dairy liquid and will hydrate the flour. If you add too much liquid the scones will be soupy and hard to handle.

• the sugar content: an ingredient high in sugar like a fruit compote might make the scones overly sweet, so you might want to consider reducing the sugar % in the dough. And if you are making a savoury scone, you will want to omit the sugar all together.

• flavour: always consider how you are going to maximise the potential of the ingredient you’re using. For example, if you want to include chunks of potato to your dough, you will want to roast and season them properly, as if you were cooking them to eat alone.

• always chill your inclusions before adding them to your dough.

This month has flown by, bringing with it a whisper of chilled air and the most beautiful trees with phoenix like leaves - simultaneously the colours of saffron, ginger and mustard. So vibrant, they literally stopped me in my tracks.

In the bakery there were the first signs of Christmas with the first wafts of caramelised, boozy fruit evaporating from the oven as mincemeat and the first Christmas puddings were baked. There’s been the limitless task of peeling pumpkins (for pumpkin custard tarts and squash and sage galettes) - collecting their skins in the centre of the table like a mound of pencil sharpenings. As well as an attempt to make a dent in the bountiful crates of quince that are stacked in each crevice of the building. My highlight was seeing the most exquisite glass-like crabapple jelly that Fiona scooped and perched on top of slices of spiced apple cake. Pectin really is magic!

Thank you for reading.

Cissy…xo

What is ‘staging’?

Do you want realistic advice about how to change careers and start working in a restaurant kitchen or bakery? Then look no further. This month’s newsletter shares the nuanced challenges you face when you start a new life working in a kitchen.

For most, going to culinary school isn’t a feasible option as it is so expensive. A year’s course at Leith’s School of Food and Wine can cost up to £35,000, whilst a 12-week course at Ballymaloe Cookery School is up to €17,500. This means most people who want to get into a kitchen carry out what is known in the industry as ‘a stage’. Essentially this is an unpaid internship where a chef works in another chef’s kitchen for free, in order to learn a new way of cooking or in the hopes of securing a new job. ‘Staging’ is a particularly good way for people to figure out if working in a kitchen is really what they want to do, whilst it also helps give restaurants a free helping hand.

When I wanted to become a chef, I did just this. I sent out email after email until I secured a few ‘stages’ in some of London’s well-renowned restaurants, including Rochelle Canteen and Lyle’s. I would work day time shifts at the restaurants then rush to the pub I worked at, so that I could support myself financially. In these early days I wasn’t bothered by the long hours as I was hungry to learn. I was, however, absolutely terrified of everyone and everything; no one told me what to expect! And unlike today, I couldn’t turn to social media for glimpses of kitchen life. Instead, I’d turn up to these businesses wondering what to wear, what to bring and even where I could stand. It drove my anxiety through the roof! When I was given jobs to do I felt like an imposter who always fucked up. And, who knew you had to shout “backs” when pivoting around people? Not me. (Now it’s so engrained in my brain it accidentally bursts from my mouth as I squeeze past people in the supermarket); or that most places (or at least the ones I’ve worked at) don’t actually require you to replace people’s first names with “chef” like you’re in some sort of military operation; or if you’re starting at 6am, you should most definitely be there at 5.45am so that you can change and be ready to start work on the dot. However, if I hadn’t put myself out there, into uncomfortable situations, I wouldn’t have gained new skills, or even found out that I’m not really suited to restaurant kitchens anyway! Bakeries have my heart.

Staging isn’t just for those looking to get into kitchens, it’s also a beautiful way for well-seasoned chefs, bakers and people that work front of house, to gain new relationships and share knowledge with other like-minded people in the industry. I’ve continued to stage throughout my full-time employment in bakeries and it’s given me some of the most amazing opportunities and insights. But let me tell ya, the first day in someone else’s kitchen is still a little nerve-wracking. Especially if you get your period, faint and hit your head on the dish pit and are forced to go home! (Sorry to the Spring pastry kitchen for that). BUT as with anything, it’s all a learning curve and we must never stop learning!

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A Q&A with Marly Klein

Instead of hearing about my staging tales I thought what better way to find out about the realities of kitchen work experience than from someone who is in the throes of it right now? So let me introduce you to Marly Klein, who I know as a lovely, smiley customer of Quince Bakery. Almost every week since I’ve been at the bakery, Marly has made the trip from her University halls in Central London to the little bakery in Islington to collect a haul of bountiful baked goods (with a particular tenderness for the sweet and savoury scones). Despite Marly being a 22 year old undergraduate studying Biomedical Science at University College London, she is also an aspiring chef who has recently challenged herself by carrying out a string of stages at some of London’s best restaurants and bakeries, including Quince.

Here’s our conversation…

C: Marly, thank you so much for speaking with me!

You’re currently finishing your degree in Biomedical Science but you’ve decided to pursue a career as a chef. What enticed you to change your career path?

M: Until about a year ago, I thought I had to follow the typical path - A-levels, then university, then a 9 to 5 corporate job. I never considered turning a passion (cooking) into a career. I chose to do a biomedical science degree because it seemed like the ‘right’ choice. But as I got closer to finishing my degree, I felt uninspired and questioned whether this was truly what I wanted to do. That’s when I made the bold decision to ditch the five-year plan and pursue what I really love: cooking.

For me, cooking isn’t just a hobby, it’s a deep passion that has become my therapy and my way to stay present.

Growing up, I was a competitive gymnast and at the time food was just fuel. But after injuries, the pandemic, and the stress of A-levels, the gymnastics chapter of my life ended. Without getting into the nitty gritty details, in the years that followed I struggled with an eating disorder. However, since my recovery, my relationship with food has come a long way. It is no longer about control, but about rediscovering it as something joyful, healing and deeply meaningful. Falling back in love with food quite honestly saved my life and made me realise following a career as a chef is the life I want to build.

C: So how did you first find out what ‘staging’ is?

M: To be completely honest, when I first decided I wanted to start ‘staging’, I didn’t know it was called that. I just emailed a handful of bakeries asking if I could come in for some unpaid work experience, not realising I was essentially asking to ‘stage’. It was only through chatting with people in the industry that I finally googled it. A few YouTube videos later, and I was fully down a rabbit hole of learning how common it is to stage as a way to gain restaurant experience without going to culinary school.

C: That’s amazing! I know you’ve been round the restaurant houses, but for the readers, can you walk me through some of the kitchens you’ve ‘staged’ in so far?

M: Yes absolutely! The first places I reached out to were bakeries, mainly because I have a huge sweet tooth and wanted to learn to make all the delicious sweet treats I was so madly in love with. I first spent time at Finks Bakery, and of course, Quince Bakery back in June. Those two experiences gave me a huge boost of confidence, and it was through chatting with the various bakers there that I was encouraged to start reaching out to some restaurants. So, I pulled up my big girl pants and did just that.

Since July, I’ve staged at Café Cecilia (twice), Toklas Restaurant, Little Duck, Canteen 310 and The River Café. Next, I’m heading to do pastry stages at both The River Café and Spring, which I’m ridiculously excited about!

C: Was it easy enough to get in touch with these restaurants and bakeries? And were you given clear instructions on what to expect?

M: Some places were definitely easier to get in contact with than others. If I couldn’t find an obvious email address online, I’d usually reach out to a specific chef working at the restaurant through Instagram and ask if they had a contact I could use. But what I’ve realised now after completing a few stages, is that the industry is such a small world. Once you get chatting to one chef, they’d often help put me in touch with another.

Most of the time it was clear what was expected of me. After the initial reaching out and reply, appropriate dates and times were discussed and confirmed, then I was often given an indication of what I needed to bring. If it wasn’t clear I always made sure to ask, as when I started out I didn’t have my own set of knives, chef whites or cheffing shoes (which are more important than you think).

C: What made you choose these places in particular?

M: A big part of choosing where to stage was simply because I’d eaten there before, absolutely loved the food, and wanted to learn how to make it myself. All the places I’ve worked at share a similar style; simple, seasonal cooking, often with an Italian or Mediterranean influence. I knew early on that I didn’t want to work in fine dining, doing the whole foams and gels thing doesn’t excite me as much.

Another big factor was the atmosphere. Obviously, you can’t know exactly what a kitchen will be like before you get there, but I feel like I got a good sense of the kitchen culture through talking to other people in the industry.

C: How long were your placements? And what sort of hours did you work?

M: Generally, they were between four to six days at a time, but I’ve gone back to a few restaurants a month or so later to do another couple of days, Café Cecilia and The River Café, for instance. I think there’s some legal rule about not being able to work somewhere unpaid for over a certain number of days1.

The hours were usually either a morning shift (around 8am–5pm) or an evening one (3pm–11pm). I tended to do the early shifts for the first day or two, just to get my bearings, then for the rest of the week I’d ask to stay on for longer, until 8-9pm, so that I could get a proper feel for dinner service. Everyone thought I was completely nuts for wanting to do multiple double shifts in a row (and to be fair, my feet, shins and back agreed), but there’s something weirdly addictive about the organised chaos of service. I just love it!

C: You’re not nuts!! I think it shows how keen you are to learn, which is great!

Did any of the places you worked at offer to pay you for your time? If not, did you feel it was a fair balance of free labour for the chef’s knowledge and your learning? Or did you feel that the business was reliant on free labour?

M: I didn’t get paid for any of the hours I worked. If anything, I was losing money on transport! Depending on where I was coming from, I’d spend anywhere between £6 and £18 a day just getting there and back.

In terms of balance, it really varied from place to place, but it was generally fair. Most of the time I was asked to do the more menial tasks like cleaning mushrooms or podding countless borlotti beans. However I think my enthusiasm to learn meant after a while the team were more than happy to teach me more challenging things like making agnolotti.

C: So if you weren’t paid, how did you support yourself financially? Staging isn’t always a feasible option for everyone, despite being a cheaper option than culinary school.

M: I have a bustling little side hustle tutoring GCSE chemistry, and that’s what I used to cover my day-to-day travel and other logistical costs. I was also lucky enough not to have to pay for accommodation, staying with friends and family in London while I was staging (as I live between Brighton and my University halls during term time). That said, most of them lived quite far out, so my commute was often over an hour each way and cost roughly £10 a day. The only real expense I had was travel (which definitely adds up quickly), but other than that, I barely spent money on anything else and always made the most of having staff food at the restaurant.

C: I think we’ve seen an increased popularity (or fetishism) for becoming a chef because of online content, but can can you give me a realistic depiction of what your day looked like at one of the kitchens you worked in?

M: Generally, I’d arrive around 8am-ish and get changed into my chef whites and trousers. The first part of the day usually involved putting away deliveries and finding space for everything in the walk-in fridge (which felt like a jigsaw puzzle trying to fit everything in). Then the head chef that day would write up a big prep list so everyone knew their jobs, and I’d help prep until about 11am. This included things like making, rolling, and shaping pasta; cooking batches of girolle mushrooms or buckets of borlotti beans; making gigantic quantities of ragu or risotto; marinating peppers (won’t lie … I didn’t love that job); making pastry for frangipane tarts; prepping chocolate mousse; whisking up all sorts of dressings and sauces for service; cleaning scallops; and even butchering rabbit legs - the list goes on! Sometimes there’d be a staff breakfast around 10am or 11am-ish, which was usually eggs and toast or bowls of yogurt and it was always a bit of a munch-as-you-cook situation.

Lunch service usually started around 12pm, so from about 11:30am the chefs would begin setting up their stations. Ideally, prep would be finished before service started, but that rarely happened as there was always something to finish whilst tickets started coming in. Often that meant prepping artichokes (which makes a right old mess), cleaning mushrooms, podding beans, or picking herbs, which is the less demanding but still time-consuming stuff. Lunch service tended to run from 12–3pm, and any time it was slow, I definitely wasn’t standing around; I’d be helping prep for dinner. While it’s not the same at every place, I generally started out on the ‘larder’ section and then depending, I moved onto other sections like the ‘grill’ or ‘hot pans’.

After service, there’d be a big clean down, then straight onto dinner prep. The head chef would write another list so everyone knew what needed doing. Someone would also be in charge of cooking staff lunch which was usually eaten between 3:30 to 5pm. I had to do this at Café Cecilia … and it was terrifying! The evening shift started at 3pm and by 5 or 6pm, dinner service was in full swing.

C: Oooh! What did you make?

M: With help from a lovely chef Gwen, we made a gigantic chicken pie with a side salad.

C: Yum! Ok, ok, so apart from your chicken pie, where had the best staff food?

M: That really is an impossible question to answer! For staff breakfast I’ve got to give it to Canteen 310, mainly because it’s right next to Layla bakery and they’d frequently come and deliver all the chef’s free pastries in the morning! For staff lunches, I certainly had some incredible meals at Café Cecilia … one of the chefs Toby made the best chicken curry I’ve ever had! Plus there were often leftover dessert bits. Toklas also wins points for staff meal deals. After my stages there, the head chef told me to grab a casual three course dinner and a glass of wine with a friend - on the house!

C: That sounds like a good exchange for all your hard work to me!

In these restaurants, are there any dishes that really stand out for you?

M: I’ll try to pick just one standout dish from each restaurant (though honestly I could go on forever!).

At Toklas, I shadowed the grill chef and made a stunning lamb dish: a simply grilled, deboned lamb leg, served with slowly roasted Coure Del Vusiovio tomatoes, borlotti beans, and salsa verde. Getting to understand the timing, technique, and then taste it was truly something special. At The River Café, one of the chefs taught me to cook an incredible grilled lemon sole, served with whole braised violet artichokes, wild rocket, and a caper sauce, which was absolutely divine. At Canteen 310, I was fascinated by their chicken cooked in milk with sage and lemon, which was a method and combination I’d never seen before. At Café Cecilia, I helped prepare a guinea fowl with sweetcorn purée and girolles, then watched it come together perfectly in service. And at Little Duck, I learned to make a squid ragu, something I’d never done or tasted before, which turned out utterly delicious.

Each dish taught me so much, not just about technique, but about timing, flavour, and how it all comes together on the plate.

C: Wow! It sounds like you were thrown in at the deep end (in a good way). Is there anything you were asked to do that really pushed you out of your comfort zone?

M: In my first stage at Café Cecilia, my very first job was to cook and pick the crab, which, might I add, come in alive and wriggling. I was told to fill a large pot with water, bring it to the boil, and then drop them in … and to definitely use tongs, because apparently, the crabs like to get a bit feisty. After cooking them, one of the chefs set me up at a station to pick the meat. I was handed a giant mallet, a huge knife, and a pair of tweezers, given a quick demo, and then told to “go for it.” By the end, I had tiny bits of shell in my hair, crab juice splattered across my (no longer clean) whites, and smelt faintly of fish for the rest of the day but apparently, I’d done a good job and was praised for neatly separating the white from the brown meat. I now have a deep appreciation for white crab meat because I know exactly how much painstaking effort goes into picking it out of the legs with tweezers!

That said, the scariest things overall were the big, hot, and sharp things. Sticking your arms deep into a scorching oven, hauling giant pots of boiling stock, and lowering things into blazing fryers takes a certain kind of bravery (and a decent pain threshold). I now understand why chefs have “asbestos hands”.

C: Ouch!

With all these things so new to you, I’m assuming there might have been a few blunders along the way. Did you learn anything crucial whilst making mistakes?

M: Thankfully, I didn’t do anything horribly wrong, mostly because I made sure to ask if I didn’t know something. However, I definitely made plenty of little mistakes. I once made an overly garlicky ricotta filling for agnolotti, left the woody ends on samphire, forgot to grease a couple of tins of Guinness bread so the dough got stuck and wouldn’t come out, dropped a hot tray (or two), and accidentally put cold things on hot plates during service (a big no-no). I was also told to re-plate more than a few scoops of chocolate mousse.

I’m a fairly sensitive person and tend to take criticism straight to heart, but one of the best bits of advice I’ve been given from other chefs is that you need to have thick skin. In the heat of service, if someone snaps or shouts or tells you to redo something, it’s best not to take it personally. Accept the criticism, fix it, and move on. It’s something I’m still learning to do, but I’m getting there.

C: Is there anything you’ve been taught that you’re especially proud of learning?

M: It has definitely been learning how to make all sorts of fresh pasta. At each restaurant I’ve staged at, there’s always been some sort of fresh pasta on the menu, so I’ve picked up countless shapes and techniques; from stuffed pasta like agnolotti, panzotti and cappelletti, to hand-cut tagliatelle, and then of course, learning to cook it all perfectly in a busy service.

I have also been especially proud of all the pastry skills I picked up at Café Cecilia; from making their signature deep fried bread & butter pudding, seasonal frangipane tarts and fig leaf panna cottas, to the decadent chocolate mouse, various sorbet bases, and even the iconic Guinness bread ice cream. I also have to mention the chocolate and pistachio choux buns I learnt to make at Toklas and the buttermilk panna cotta from Little Duck – those desserts do honestly live rent-free in my head.

C: Yum! I want to eat it all!!

Beyond what you’ve learnt to cook, do you think you’ve learnt anything else?

M: Yes, I’ve learnt how challenging it is to be a chef. It takes incredible amounts of integrity, discipline and respect to do the job and I’m in awe of the chefs who I watched plate dish after dish with the same high standard. Especially knowing their feet were sore and they were absolutely knackered (I was!).

I’ve also learnt how important it is to be a team player. If someone’s “in the shit”, as chefs like to say, everyone needs to jump in to keep everything afloat, even if you’ve got your own prep piling up.

C: It definitely is a very physically taxing job but it can also be extremely inspiring. Have you been inspired to further your learning at home?

M: Oh yes! I’ve definitely been inspired to further my learning outside of restaurants. I’ve attempted to recreate a load of the dishes, both sweet and savoury, that I learnt to make in restaurants (successfully, I might add!). I already have a rather extensive cookbook collection and can happily spend hours browsing and practising recipes to a T. On top of that, I’ve also watched plenty of online tutorials and read articles to better understand techniques I came across in the kitchen. Since starting to cook in restaurants, I’ve become far more confident to go ‘off script’, trust my instincts in the kitchen, and apply the things I’ve learnt to a recipe rather than just following the book if I have learnt there’s a better way.

C: Do you feel like the more you practice, the more you’re being drawn towards a particular part of the craft?

M: I’m really drawn to the artistic side of cooking, so I absolutely love plating the final dishes in service. Knowing all the prep and work that went on behind the scenes, then finishing the plate with a drizzle of olive oil and ringing the bell for service, is such a special feeling, especially in open kitchens where you get to see the customer’s reaction as it arrives at the table! That said, I also nerd out over all the technical aspects; getting beautifully emulsified pasta sauces (a knob of cold butter and ‘mantecare’), the precision of pastry, achieving the deepest golden crust because of the way proteins react when heated … It’s all science, and that’s where my chemistry background really comes into play.

C: Ok, the question I’m sure most people want to know; did any of the kitchens live up to that stereotypical crazy chef energy (toxic masculinity, throwing pots, swearing, etc.) or was it a healthy work atmosphere?

M: In the kitchens I’ve worked in, yes, the culture was healthy, and people were generally very friendly, greeting me with smiles and friendly chit-chat each morning. No screaming chefs (just a couple of stern ones)! When I worked double shifts I was given a 30-minute break, I was always offered coffee by the front of house team, and could definitely take bathroom breaks if needed (although it’s definitely an unspoken rule to always go before service). That said, I’ve heard plenty of horror stories from other chefs about places they’d worked or staged at, so that unhealthy culture still absolutely exists. That’s why it’s so important to choose wisely where you go. Ultimately, when you’re staging, you’re there for free, so if someone is being rude to you, it’s not an obligation to stay.

C: You’re so right. I’ve only ever experienced one ‘bad’ stage where I felt my free labour was being taken advantage of, so I left and never went back.

Some of the places you’ve worked at are run by alumni of The River Cafe - did you notice how this institution has filtered into these newer businesses?

M: Oh, absolutely. The type of food (and plenty of the dishes) felt very familiar. I definitely noticed there’s a bit of unspoken animosity about restaurants ‘borrowing’ too much from others, but that’s a whole topic I probably shouldn’t get into. Café Cecilia and Canteen 310 are both run by previously River Cafe chefs, and you can see the influence in how they run service, write prep lists, and curate their menus. The systems, discipline, and approach to seasonal ingredients all felt like an evolution of that River Café DNA … but for the sake of diplomacy, I’ll leave it at that.

C: Ok, ok. Big question - have any of your work placements resulted in a job offer?

M: I’m still pinching myself, but, yes, several of my placements have resulted in job offers! I’m not looking to start full-time until next year, and I’m not sure if I’m allowed to say exactly where just yet, but let’s just say I have a bundle of exciting options lined up for when the time comes.

C: That’s amazing Marly! Congratulations!

So do you think you’ll pursue any more stages between now and taking up one of your job offers?

M: Yes, I’m currently planning a few more pastry-specific stages, heading back to the River Café and also to Spring, which I haven’t been to yet. There are loads of other restaurants and chefs I’d love to learn from, including St John, Café Deco, and Quality Chop House. The cuisines at these places aren’t drastically different from what I’ve already experienced, but it’s this kind of food that excites me the most, and I know I’d come away having learned a bundle of new and exciting techniques. I don’t think I’m ready to try a hotel kitchen or super high-end fine dining just yet, as I’ve heard too many horror stories, and honestly, I don’t think my skin is tough enough for that world right now!.

C: Finally, do you have any advice for the past ‘you’ before going into your first day of staging?

M: I’d tell past me to go in with curiosity, patience, and zero ego. Don’t be afraid to ask questions, but also don’t be precious about doing the boring jobs, that’s how chefs decide if you’re worth teaching the fun stuff. Be ready to make mistakes (and you will), and don’t take criticism personally. It’s about the food, not you. Oh, and bring a water bottle and supportive, comfy shoes. Seriously, your feet will thank you!

For more info …

• Follow Marly’s journey on Instagram or via her newsletter ‘Marly’s Table’.

• Read ‘Staging 101’ by the Countertalk team for more insightful details on staging.

This is my extremely quick version. Instead of infusing the honey with fresh chillis (like most hot honeys) we’re going to cheat and create that spice by using some hot sauce and chilli flakes. When I worked at Scéal Bakery we made our own hot sauce that was used for our Kimchi Cheese Bearclaw (croissant dough filled with a hot sauce béchamel, in-house made kimchi and grated Coolea cheese, topped with a hot sauce glaze and our own Shichimi Togarashi). We made the hot sauce by fermenting chillis with garlic and spices. Once fermented it was blitzed into a sauce. Why is this relevant? Well one day, I raided the larder (dry store) to make a hot honey for our staff pizzas and used this hot sauce and this is how this recipe came about.

If you don’t want to make it yourself, you can buy delicious bottles of the good stuff from my favourite Bambino or from Dr Sting’s Hot Honey.

Cissy’s Quick Hot Honey Recipe

Makes 150ml

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