I think about my parents’ stories of growing up in the hinterlands of Nabunturan where they had to live off the land and often didn’t get enough to eat. The pride of having avocado trees lining their makeshift driveway. Of riding the carabao around the property when it was supposed to be plowing in the fields. Places I’ve never seen, but still somehow feel in my bones.
I’ve never stood in the kitchen of my grandparents’ home in Pampanga, but I can picture it perfectly through Lola Ruthie’s stories—the blue flame of the gas stove, the dented aluminum pots, the wooden spoon that belonged to her mother before her.
The first time I ever baked something on my own, I was six years old. My lola let me help shape pandesal, my small hands pressing the dough into clumsy little rounds. I remember watching them rise in the oven, golden and warm, filling the house with the scent of butter and yeast and comfort.
That was the first time I felt it. That pull in my chest.
That want.
Not just to bake, but to make something that lasts. Something that could carry people somewhere, even for just a moment.
That’s what Wanderlust is.
It’s not just about the destination. It’s about the feeling.
I scribble the thought down.
Pastry as a journey. Each bite should transport the eater somewhere new.
I underline it twice.
I can do this. I can build something magical. I need layers—textures that tell a story. Maybe...
Ube chiffon cake with coconut mousse, inspired by home.
Calamansi honey tarts, bright and sharp, for adventure.
Salted mango toffee, smoky and caramelized, for the unexpected twists along the way.
I scribble faster, the ideas finally coming together.
When Lola Ruthie taught me to bake, she didn’t use measuring cups. “Feel it,” she’d say, guiding my hands through the flour. “The dough will tell you what it needs.”
I thought she was being mysterious, but now I understand. Baking isn’t just about precision—it’s about intuition. About knowing when to follow the recipe and when to let your hands lead the way.
Like how she’d fold pandan leaves into a sticky rice cake, the scent filling the kitchen with something earthy and sweet. “This is how my grandmother made it,” she’d say. “And her grandmother before that.”
That’s what I want people to taste when they bite into my desserts—not just sugar and butter, but history. Memory. Longing.
I want them to taste a place they’ve never been.
I close my eyes and see my showpiece: a structure that rises like a landscape. At the base, the ube chiffon—violet and cloud-like, the taste of childhood visits to Filipino bakeries where my lola would point out each pastry, telling me its story. In the middle, the brightness of calamansi tarts, reminding me of my mother’s stories about picking the tiny citrus fruits from the tree in her parents’ yard. And at the top, the golden toffee pieces arranged like islands in an archipelago.
But then, I pause.
A showpiece like this needs a structure. A display that holds the desserts, that tells the story before anyone takes a bite.
And I can bake anything—but I can’t build.
My previous attempts at constructing anything more complex than a layer cake have ended in disaster. Last Christmas, I tried to make a gingerbread house for my old bakery window display. It collapsed three times before I gave up and called it an “avant-garde gingerbread ruin.” The hipsters loved it, but I know better than to try that again with judges watching.
I drum my fingers against the notebook, biting my lip.
I need someone who understands structure. Someone good with their hands. Someone strong, steady, meticulous.
Someone who, despite grumbling and glaring at me like I personally insult his ancestors, would never let a project fail.
I groan. Oh, gods. I need Thorne.
