Grief Goggles
Processing the World Through the Lens of Profound Loss
“How do I become the host of a late-night baking show?”
Last year, the question had been swirling in my mind for no less than three years. I toiled over the path from social media to network television… I knew it was possible because that part, I’d already done. A casting producer had quite literally picked me out in a crowd of hashtags on Instagram and put me on Food Network Canada. Yet, I still had no idea how to take this show I had in my head, where I’d described my intended hosting style as a mash-up of Martha Stewart and David Letterman– from concept to network. Do I call up the producers I’d kept in touch with and say, “hey I’ve got this show concept…” and they’d help me pitch it? Possibly. But then, how do I have them take me with the concept? How can I ensure that they don’t steal my idea and find another host? I need more than a pitch, I told myself. I needed proof of concept. Then, the lightbulb moment where I realized “nobody’s gonna just give me this show… or the money for it, unless I make it first.”
Baked After Dark with Bri was born. It was almost too perfect of a realization, turned evolution. Baked With Bri was already its own solid entity, born out of the pandemic and organically grown by community. My audience was used to me baking and being active at night, so it wasn’t like I was starting from scratch. It was the perfect rebrand, an extension of my existing one. That, plus my time on TV was a hell of an advantage in building the framework for my show. When I sat down to outline Season 1, I was asking all the right questions: how many episodes should I have? What should they be about? What should I bake? Or more importantly, what will the audience want to bake?
It made sense because the catalyst for the whole bit, from Baked with Bri to Baked After Dark with Bri, was teaching people how to bake better. So, I thoughtfully curated a list of episodes that would not only establish my authority on baking, but make people want to remake my recipes. I thought of titles that were fun, intriguing…sometimes suggestive. I hired a friend trained in photography and videography to help me record and edit– because I knew something this big would need a team for proper execution and I wanted it done right. After all, this content could become my pitch deck to network.
I did all the right things to plan and, subsequently, create the show of my dreams.
I don’t have to get into details for you to know that none of that shit – and I do mean NONE of it– went as planned. From my first guest backing out hours before filming, to having to fire my producer after my season had already launched; everything that could go to shit, did. Somehow, though, I managed to forge on. I reworked the season and decided against guests altogether, took over production, and ended up with more episodes and a longer inaugural season than I’d planned. By December, the season– albeit hectic to produce, was going better than I’d expected, and I was planning my second season in tandem with my finale. I had a rhythm, a larger audience and had finally started cracking the ceiling on monetization.
Then my mama died the day after I filmed my finale. I never even posted it. Nothing snatches the earth from under your feet or the air from your lungs like losing your mama. There aren’t enough words, metaphors or emotions to express the profoundness of that specific loss and yet… you gotta keep going.
Months later, when the funeral was over, and the wellness checks had dried to a trickle, that’s all I heard. My mama in head, telling me to pick myself up and keep going. Two days before she passed, I had just shown her my green pinafore apron and all the episodes I had lined up for my next season. “Wow, I’m impressed,” she beamed looking at the gold buttons. “And Ma,” I’d excitedly continued, “I’m gonna do an episode on Toni Morrison! I have a friend who’s a librarian…we’re gonna talk about literacy! BLACK literacy!” She listened intently while I talked her ear off, laughing about all the Toni Morrison books I snuck off her bookshelf to read before I could really appreciate the stories they told. I looked back over the notebook with my Season 2 outline and starred that episode, because now it wasn’t just a love letter to Toni; it was also addressed to my mama– the woman who taught me to read at three and cultivated my love for literature and academia… for Toni Morrison.
Now the rest of my season seemed almost…trivial. Sure, I had recipes people were almost certain to want to create… but next to an episode that held so much weight, they paled in comparison. My questions shifted from things like “what recipes would people want to create?” to “what am I trying to say with this episode?” and better yet, “what’s the purpose of this space?” The kitchen is my sanctuary. It’s where I fellowship with my loved ones, venerate my ancestors, and lay it all down. That was it. I never wanted a “talk show” or even a baking show for real. I wanted somewhere where people could come have a conversation; whether they’re a guest or audience member, and come lay it all down. Somewhere they could be the truest form of themselves because it was safe to do so, and be cared for too.
Suddenly, I realized I didn’t want to be a Martha or a Dave… I wanted to be a “Tony”. A Toni [Morrison] in the sense I wanted to tell my story and the stories of people like me unapologetically and without explaining, because the people it’s intended for don’t need explanation. A Tony [Bourdain] because I realized in building a meaningful season two, that food was never the focus– it’s the doorway. Bourdain traveled the world, experiencing food as a chef but connecting with the people who made it, as just a curious human. He was interested in the food, yes, but he was most fascinated by the human condition– and how food becomes part of the community and the connection. He entered other chef’s kitchens as a guest and yet presented them with the hospitality– a safe place to lay it all down, be heard and be held by a meal and an open ear. Somewhere between Toni Morrison teaching me that our stories can become home, and Tony Bourdain teaching me that meals can too– I realized that Baked After Dark was never about the baking or even the recipes; it was about inviting people to come home. What did that even mean, though, and how the fuck do I extend hospitality – the feeling of home, on the internet? Toni Morrison said, “If there’s a book you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” I knew there was a place that I needed, but didn’t quite exist for other people. So I created it.
“Where would I be without my community in this season?” I’d asked myself. Then, more importantly, “Where could these people be if they had community?” How many people were weathering this kind of storm with no shelter? The question kept me up at night. It made me rework the season, then every episode, then the season again until I’d curated the season. I chuckled as I reworked it through these “grief goggles” because it was the first time I realized how losing my mama made me look at everything so different.
Now I wasn’t outwardly asking “how do people gain community that they don’t have”, I was asking myself “how do I become part of the community that people need? The recipes still mattered, but now I realized I didn’t give a shit if people remade them or not. This is more than recipes and baking. It’s not really about food anymore, either. This season is legacy work. It’s honoring my mama through my art, and continuing her life’s work of being the community somebody needs– whether they’re looking for one or not.
I hope this season resonates with who it’s intended for. That it makes you laugh, makes you cry, makes you appreciate your people a little bit more… and if you’re still searching for them; I hope it shows you that you’re not alone.
Welcome home.
I’m Bri, and Baked After Dark with Bri Season 2 premieres Friday, August 21st on YouTube.
