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"A bright light with cakes along the way, this is going to stick."
That was the last text my dad sent me before he was killed in a motorcycle accident in July 2020.
I had just finished a cooking segment showcasing cake pops on a local television show. Even though I'd been at this for ten years, and had countless appearances under my belt, my dad almost never missed one of my segments. On this day he was proud, as always. I promised to bring some treats to the house soon.
Dad definitely had a sweet tooth—whenever I was recipe testing he'd ask if I had any extra cake slices, and he made it a point to tell me how much he loved any treat I brought to a family gathering. He always came back for seconds and especially loved my carrot cake.
When I published my first cookbook my family threw me a surprise launch party. I can still see his big smile as he flipped through the pages. That night, he texted me how proud he was of his little "beep", which was the nickname he gave me when I was a little girl.
I still have photos and messages on my phone from that day. But for a long time, as much as I treasured those messages, the pain of his loss overwhelmed the sweetness of those memories.
Even as more than a year passed after his death, I couldn't bring myself to look at those photos or listen to his voice for more than a few seconds. It hurt too much. I kept them, though. All of them. I didn't want his face or his voice to ever fade from my memory.
For my dad, building and driving motorcycles was an escape; a special treat after a long week of work. Growing up, I would often sit in the garage and talk to him while he worked—always while humming—or watch while he rotated my tires for me.
His love of motorcycles taught me a very important lesson—to make time for something that genuinely makes me happy, which for me was my kitchen; baking cakes and sharing my creations with others around the world.
On the day of the accident, I was alone at my sister's house. She and her family were moving that weekend, so I had arrived early to help pack up her kitchen. My sister and mom would be along soon to help. Then my phone rang.
My big brother's wife began to explain what had happened. I didn't get many details—dad hit a deer on his motorcycle. It was bad, but he was "stable."
I hung up the phone and collapsed on the ground. I couldn't breathe. The next few hours were a blur. I called my husband and met my sister and mom at the hospital.
We waited in the waiting room for what felt like an eternity. There had been a local plane crash and the ICU was very busy, so we were told they would bring us to see him soon. Hours went by; we all assumed he was alive. Dad had been riding motorcycles his entire life. He always wore his helmet and leathers, and was a safe driver.
My brother, who had witnessed the accident, arrived. We waited. I remember talking to family members and texting them updates. Eventually, a doctor came in. We asked when we could go talk to him.
"Well, he's in critical condition," he said.
"IS HE ALIVE?" I yelled eventually.
The doctor paused. And that's when I knew. He wasn't alive. Well, not technically.
The doctor went on to explain that dad had no brain activity, and there was nothing he could do to restore it. It was unimaginable. I'll never forget holding my dad's lifeless hand and sobbing over his chest before saying goodbye.
The bright light he had texted me about was gone. I lost my dad.
Sounds, smells, and locations that reminded me of him were hard to process. Even if I felt like I'd had a string of good days or weeks, an otherwise warm memory would bring back the pain of losing him.
And whenever it did, the grief hit me like a ton of bricks. Just one small flashback, one taste of a cake I know he loved, one smell of the grease from his garage where he worked on motorcycles, and I'd feel like he was back—like I'd finally woken up from a bad dream.
But then, I'd inevitably remember the sight of his broken body, lying lifeless in the ICU, while the neurosurgeon quietly explained how he had no brain activity.
Because of the way he died, it was also difficult to separate the hobby he loved so much from his tragic death. And because he was so supportive of my creative outlet, it was difficult for me to do any baking after his passing.
He'd never again grin after downing a piece of carrot cake on Easter Sunday. He wouldn't try one of my new recipes and tell me how proud he was of his "beep." He wouldn't text me after watching me on TV.
What was once an escape became an ever-present reminder that he was gone. Every time I tried to bake something, it was like picking at a wound that just refused to heal. I took a long break from social media, and I stepped out of the kitchen.
Then in early 2021, I signed a deal for a second cookbook. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to throw myself into another project—part of me dreaded the work. But on the other hand, I thought it might at least distract me from the pain. It gave me a reason to get back into the kitchen.
Getting back in the kitchen was not easy. But I did it, creating hundreds of new recipes, testing out combinations of cake and buttercream, and designing creative decorations.
And as I worked through each new recipe, I felt something: I felt joy again in the kitchen.
Working on my book had started as a distraction from my grief, but it became instead a companion to my grief, in a positive way. I wrote stories about my dad and included the carrot cake recipe he loved.
Because I was doing something that made me happy, I felt like he was happy for me. The grief no longer overwhelmed the sweet memories; instead they began to coexist. I poured my heart and soul into writing a cookbook during one of the most difficult periods of my life.
Baking cakes didn't fix my grief, but it showed me how I can feel grief in one hand, and still find a reason to smile in the other. What started as a distraction eventually propelled me forward, creating something meaningful and helping me find the "light" my dad had mentioned in that July 2020 text.
Mandy Merriman is a baker and author. Her book I'll Bring the Cake is available from April 4, 2023. You can follow her on Instagram at @bakingwithblondie or visit her website.
All views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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