Dessert

When I Got Cancer, Baking Made Me Feel Powerful

Among the flour, butter, and sugar, I felt totally at peace in my own skin.

October 18, 2019
Photo by Bobbi Lin. Food stylist: Anna Billingskog. Prop stylist: Brooke Deonarine.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 41, I was working as a “junior baker” in a hip, new Brooklyn bakery called Baked. I had pivoted professionally by about 1000 degrees a few years prior, transitioning from (unhappily) litigating in a fancy boutique entertainment law firm in N.Y.C., to joyfully baking up every treat you could imagine—jumbo chewy chocolate-chunk cookies; malted blondies; moist zucchini bread, studded with toasted pecans; and flaky, mile-high, cream biscuits.

I knew nothing about the world of pastry prior to starting at Baked, but I’d always had a sweet tooth that just wouldn’t quit, and was eager to learn how to satiate it without heading to the grocery store. Luckily, my 20-something co-workers there—equal parts hilarious and cynical, warm and bitingly harsh—were patient, (relatively) supportive teachers, despite the fact that they’d been students themselves only a year or so before.

They taught me everything about baking: how to properly use measuring spoons and operate the industrial-sized Hobart stand mixer; how to gently fold the dry ingredients into wet when making tea loaves; how to melt chocolate in a makeshift double-boiler; that I needed to scrape out the unmixed monster cookie dough stuck at the bottom of the stand-mixer bowl.

At first, being their student was somewhat humiliating, as I was so much older yet had so few skills. But, as luck would have it, my millennial co-workers were not only excellent teachers, they were also interested in learning themselves: bonding me to them during what would soon become a tough time in ways I could not have imagined.


From the moment I was diagnosed with cancer, and through my treatment, my co-workers at Baked were naturally empathetic and inquisitive—even straight up curious—about what I was going through. This was, in part, I’m sure, because of their youth; they couldn't even comprehend the notion that what had befallen me (the old-lady mom, who worked part-time and said the F-word a lot) could someday happen to (youthful, cool) them. But they didn’t exude fear, or feel ashamed for not being sick themselves. And they never felt sorry for me in that slightly patronizing way that made me so uncomfortable.

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Top Comment:
“Radiation, chemo, life-altering surgery, more chemo and finally cancer free for the past 3 years. Baking is still an important part of me. I don't eat a lot of it. I love to give it away. We have recently moved to Santa Fe, NM, where learning to bake has reached a new level (altitude) and takes on a whole new meaning! Blessings to all survivors! ”
— Ashley'sMom
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After my double mastectomy and first two chemo treatments, I shaved my head prophylactically in order to avoid watching my hair fall out, and bought two wigs: one for work and one for life. My “work wig” was a cheap one from Ricky’s—the iconic N.Y.C. costume and beauty chain store—that came with its own light-blue wool beret. And I had another, pricier one, made of natural hair by a celebrity wigmaker, that I wore the rest of the time. I’d be in front of the Hobart—work wig and all—mixing up the chocolate cloud cookie dough while chatting all things cancer with the bakery’s head decorator, like everything was completely normal.

She wanted to hear about the hospital’s chemo suite, where I received my treatments; about what it was like to wear a wig (it sucked); about my radiation therapy; about the tiny little tattooed dots that I had been given so the hospital technicians could accurately position the radiation machine over my body each day.

I told her about the long waits pre-treatment, and how I would look around the room at all the other women with breast cancer— feeling both pleased that I looked healthier, and depressed that cancer-ridden me felt good about looking better than cancer-ridden them. I told her about how much I hated the needles, but how kind the nurses who wielded them were. I told her how I refused to take my wig off in front of anyone but my husband and children, as I couldn’t bear to have people see me when I looked so vulnerable and unattractive.

We talked about it all in this chatty, slightly clinical, matter-of-fact way that I found refreshing, distracting, and just plain comforting. In fact, I credit my co-workers at Baked with injecting much-needed levity into a pretty dark period in my life.


For better or worse, after being diagnosed and treated, I struggled the most not with despair about my future well-being, but with navigating people’s reactions when I told them the news—or when my blonde bob-of-a-wig gave it away. The fear I saw in the eyes of my fellow preschool moms made drop-offs and pick-ups annoying at the best of times, and profoundly upsetting at the worst. I could tell that they felt sorry for me, and who could blame them? I felt sorry for me, too. But I could also tell how relieved they were that this wig-requiring misfortune had struck me, and not them.

Intellectually, I understood exactly how they felt, though I like to think I would have behaved differently. But their reaction was just plain human: that very real combination of heartfelt compassion for the unwell, coupled with off-the-charts relief that it’s not actually happening to you. Human or not, however, it made me feel terrible—a weak and helpless version of me.

When assembling whoopies, I felt like me, a new and different me—one who now knew her way around an industrial stand mixer and a piping bag—but me, nonetheless.

But then I would go to work a shift at the bakery, and I’d feel like myself again, and would find everything physically surrounding me so incredibly comforting: the plush, sweet-smelling yeasted cinnamon rolls I’d encounter in the morning, the rows and rows of brightly colored sprinkles lined up in the cake-decorating section, and, most especially, the trays of generously filled whoopie pies in the bakery case. All of it brought me solace.

The whoopies, in particular, were practically life-saving. First, I adored making them in part because of their simplicity; a single large bowl, a whisk, and a rubber spatula were the only necessary tools. Second, I loved the speed with which they came together; after completing the mise en place and mixing the batter, a quick rest on the workbench was all that stood between me and a whoopie pie. Last, I was thrilled that they baked in less than 10 minutes—instant gratification.

I rarely filled the pies, as that was mostly a job for the cake decorators. But when I did, there was little else more satisfying than portioning out generous dollops of cream on the upturned cookies and lightly sandwiching them with the tops, just until the filling began to poke out at the sides.


Over time, because I loved them so, I developed almost a sixth sense about how to make the perfect whoopie pie. I instinctively knew when the batter was properly mixed, properly rested, and ready to be pulled from the oven. I was whoopie pie-obsessed—so in love with the treats—and I’m not ashamed to say it.

And, of course, I relished eating them. They reminded me of the Drake’s Devil Dogs of my youth (two chocolate cake “cookies” shaped like dog bones, sandwiching a thick layer of cream) a box of which was always in my family's kitchen cabinet. The cookie part of the Baked whoopie pie was much moister and more flavorful than a Devil Dog, and the Swiss meringue buttercream that filled the chocolate pies was light, fluffy, and scarily addictive.

At first, the bakery only sold chocolate whoopie pies, but eventually we were making gingerbread and pumpkin ones for fall, red velvet and peppermint ones for the holidays, and strawberry ones in the spring—and I truly loved them all. I had a nostalgic connection to the treat, no doubt, but it was also one of the first baked goods that I perfected, and that made me feel like an expert, filling me with confidence and pride. The assembly process felt peaceful and unhurried.

In short, when assembling whoopies, I felt like me, a new and different me—one who now knew her way around an industrial stand mixer and a piping bag—but me, nonetheless. And it was the beginning of a professional love affair with old-school sweets that are simple to make and over-the-top delicious.


It’s a cliché, I know, to equate baking and treat-making with all that is soothing, relaxing, and good. And honestly, I am much more of a snarky realist when I bake, working as quickly as possible, and forgetting to savor many aspects of the process. I’m no smiling dreamer, lazily going about my prep work, then stopping to enjoy the way the pie dough feels between my fingers and how the mid-morning light bounces off my countertop. Despite this, I unquestionably experienced baking’s restorative powers at Baked.

Now I am in no way advocating that those undergoing cancer treatment try manual labor, with people 20 years their junior, in an effort to lift their spirits. There were many days where I just didn’t feel well enough to complete my shift—or even go into the bakery at all. Moreover, sometimes being there just bummed me out: all my fellow-bakers without a care in the world, save for where they were going drinking that night, versus chemo-drained me, struggling each day with a four-year-old on a sleep strike.

But in the end, my time in that warm, bustling, professional kitchen, filled with trash-talking millennials and delicious smells, was exactly what the doctor ordered, as it were. After all, I was surrounded by the things I liked best, and folks who judged me not at all for the wig I wore, nor the crap with which I was at present forced to deal. And it still makes me smile when I think of it.


The treat in particular that still always brings me back to those Baked days is the whoopie pie. While at the bakery, I celebrated every birthday with at least one; I also ate a whoopie pie on my last day of chemo, and I had one when I stopped radiation, and then, finally, I ate a whoopie pie the day I stopped wearing my wig. The whoopie pie is still the sweet I turn to for every bake sale, potluck, in-school birthday celebration, and the occasional dinner party—when I just want to shake things up. And even though the straight up chocolate–vanilla one is still my favorite, I now make all different kinds, including gingerbread, grasshopper, peppermint, and pumpkin.

The pumpkin flavor, in fact, has a permanent spot on my Thanksgiving dessert table; it’s my most favorite way to get in the holiday spirit, and pay homage to my healing time at Baked. Recently, I developed the most perfect of pumpkin whoopies, filled with a rich dark chocolate–cream cheese filling. And while they are delicious, and gorgeous to look at, for me they are full of nostalgia. They remind me not just of my childhood, or of the darkest time in my adult-life to date, but of the power of that which is sweet—even when sour is seemingly all that surrounds you.

Do you like making whoopie pies? Let us know your favorite flavor in the comments!

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Jessie Sheehan is a cookbook author, food writer, recipe developer, and baker. She is the author of The Vintage Baker and the co-author of Icebox Cakes (both published by Chronicle Books). She has developed recipes for many cookbooks, besides her own, and has contributed recipes/and or written for Better Homes & Gardens, Rachael Ray Everyday, The Washington Post, Epicurious, Food52, Fine Cooking, TASTE, Chowhound, The Spruce Eats, Little Sous, and Main Street Magazine, among others. She blogs at jessie sheehan bakes and can be found on Instagram at @jessiesheehanbakes. She likes layer cakes with lots of frosting and cookies that are thick and chewy. Oh, and she has a soft spot for chocolate pudding. She lives in Red Hook, Brooklyn, with her husband and two boys, not far from her beloved Baked, the bakery where she got her start.

18 Comments

gluttonforlife October 25, 2019
Continually amazed and inspired bu the courage and resilience of survivors. Such a sweet story and so well-told.
 
Author Comment
Jessie S. October 25, 2019
Thank u so much. Really nice to hear. ❤️
 
Ashley'sMom October 21, 2019
In 2005, at age 49, I was diagnosed with Breast Cancer. I was lucky . . . left breast mastectomy with reconstruction followed up with Tamoxifen and Aromasin. In early 2011, my daughter and I decided to walk in the Susan G Komen 3 Day. We started baking cupcakes for donations. Between the two of us, we baked hundreds of cupcakes to make enough dollars for our walk. After that, baking was still important, but very diversified. In 2016, I went through treatment for colo-rectal cancer. It was very different. Radiation, chemo, life-altering surgery, more chemo and finally cancer free for the past 3 years. Baking is still an important part of me. I don't eat a lot of it. I love to give it away. We have recently moved to Santa Fe, NM, where learning to bake has reached a new level (altitude) and takes on a whole new meaning! Blessings to all survivors!
 
Author Comment
Jessie S. October 22, 2019
Appreciate you sharing your story, and I, too, have been on tamoxifen - still am! And yes: blessings to all survivors.
 
Anne D. October 21, 2019
Feel like we have a few things in common. I was diagnosed with breast cancer at 38 (I'm 62 now) and my daughter was about the same age as yours (3 and a half) so yes I remember the exhaustion. And I barely took off time from teaching after my mastectomy. Worked all through my chemo and hated those wigs! You mentioned the preschool moms. I too shaved all my hair off as it started to fall out. When I had a half inch or so grown back and abandoned the wig, a preschool mom I didn't know said "I love your haircut!" Whoopie pies are my favorite-thanks for the recipe. And continued good health from a long time survivor!
 
Author Comment
Jessie S. October 21, 2019
thanks for sharing this and so glad to hear you are a whoopie pie lover - continued good health right back at you! XO
 
Megan F. October 21, 2019
When I was going through chemo, I was so tired and stressed that most days were an effort. But one weekend halfway through, I had a burst of energy, and all I wanted to do was bake. For weeks I had felt nothing but exhausted, physically and emotionally. Yet suddenly I woke up one Saturday with the yen to bake. So I baked cookies and biscotti for my coworkers who had been to kind and supportive over the past months. Seven years later, I still bake for them. Because they love my treats - and I love them.
 
Author Comment
Jessie S. October 21, 2019
Love this story. Thanks for sharing it. ❤️
 
Jennifer October 19, 2019
Love this. Except, umm, the term "whoopie pies." We called them "gobs," growing up. I have to admit that "gobs" is even worse than "whoopie pies," so I'm not asking anyone else to adopt. But I bring nomenclature up jokingly--I really appreciate the perspective of the piece, including the voice of someone north of 40 addressing the joys of working alongside those well south of that milestone. Jessie, the best of health to you; may your days and the days of your children be sweet.
 
Author Comment
Jessie S. October 19, 2019
Thank u and glad my perspective resonated. ❤️
 
SarahBunny October 19, 2019
Great piece. I'm forty-something, coming to terms with health/aging as well, and this really resonated with me. I'm too entrenched in my career to take the leap to professional baking (although it's my dream), but I do have this recipe on my short list of baking therapy!
 
Author Comment
Jessie S. October 19, 2019
Glad to hear the recipe made your list and good luck!
 
Rachel October 19, 2019
Loved your story Jessie, it lifted my heart.
 
Author Comment
Jessie S. October 19, 2019
Awww, thanks Rachel. That means a lot. XO
 
Andrea H. October 19, 2019
Thank you for your story, your candor and your recipe! I, too am a lover of the classic whoopie pie for different reasons. My husband's aunt makes them for the annual Norris family reunion. Every year, I look forward to celebrating, seeing everyone, watching the kids grow up and devouring those deep chocolate cakes filled with cream. Yum!
 
Author Comment
Jessie S. October 19, 2019
You are so welcome and so happy to meet a fellow whoopie pie lover!
 
Brinda A. October 18, 2019
Thank you for sharing this with us, Jessie.
 
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Jessie S. October 19, 2019
Thank YOU Brinda, for the amazing edit. Loved working with u and hope to do so again soon. XO