
Mali wakes before the street does. She sifts flour three times, churns butter the same day, and keeps a jar of brushes right next to the piping bags — because a cake that isn't beautiful, she says, is only food.
Everything here is made in small batches by hand: the peony infusion, the raspberry glaze, the satin bows on the boxes and the little card with your name inked on it.
Mali painted cakes in a pocket sketchbook long before she dared bake one. The first tin was borrowed and slightly dented.
A neighbour's garden gave us more peonies than we could hold, so we started steeping them into syrups and glazes.
Twelve seats, a pink awning and a teapot that never goes cold. The bakery finally had an address.
Each new dessert still begins as a watercolour on paper. If the picture isn't sweet, the cake never happens.

“Come in — the kettle is already warm.”