The Kitchen Was Her Happy Place

Some of my favorite memories with Kori were made in the kitchen. Long before she became an incredible baker and cake decorator, she was a little girl standing on a chair beside her Grandma, helping stir cookie dough. Years later, Kori would tell me that baking cookies with Grandma was one of her core childhood memories. Somewhere along the way, Kori took over the role of family cake decorator. That job used to belong to me. As her interest in baking grew, she asked me to teach her everything I knew. We spent countless hours together learning how to stack cake layers, smooth frosting, cover cakes with fondant, and use every frosting tip imaginable. There wasn't much she couldn't learn once she set her mind to it. Well... Except making frosting. For reasons I'll never understand, Kori absolutely hated making frosting. No matter what we were decorating, she'd somehow convince me to make that part for her. Looking back now, I think she knew exactly how to get out of the jobs she didn't enjoy. I never minded. It meant we got to spend more time together. Whenever we baked or worked on a creative project, there was always music playing. We loved old milkshake shop music from the '50s and '60s—The Beatles, Elvis Presley, and so many others. Before long, we were singing along, dancing around the kitchen, and making as many memories as we were desserts. One of the things that always amazed me was how similarly our minds worked. We'd be decorating a cake when one of us would suddenly say, "What if we used this color?" or "Maybe we should do this instead." Almost every time, the other one would laugh and say, "I was just thinking the exact same thing." It happened so often that it stopped surprising us. We simply understood each other. Kori's creativity continued to grow throughout her life. She worked at a bakery while living in Washington and later at another bakery after returning home. She wasn't just a cake decorator—she became the lead donut fryer and decorator, creating beautiful designs that reflected her imagination and artistic eye. She loved surprising me by bringing home treats she'd made at work. Home, however, was where her creativity truly came alive. Kori loved experimenting in the kitchen. Rarely did she follow a recipe exactly as written. She was always adding ingredients, changing flavors, or trying something completely new just to see what would happen. She wasn't just talented. She was fearless about creating. Sometimes those experiments became favorites. Her Orange Blueberry Cookies became legendary among our family and friends. It wasn't long before people stopped asking if she'd bring cookies to gatherings and simply assumed she would. They became Kori's cookies, and everyone hoped she'd arrive carrying a container full of them. When we worked together at Cinepointe 6, Kori often baked treats to share with our coworkers. She genuinely loved making people happy through the things she created. Every cake was made for a celebration. Every cookie was made to be shared. That was Kori—she believed the sweetest things in life were meant to be given away. Cooking was such a huge part of her life. She was very passionate about it. If photography captured the way Kori saw the world, cooking was the way she loved it. Kori teased me endlessly because my spice cabinet was practically empty. Every time she came over, she'd complain that I didn't have the spices she needed and would eventually restock the cabinet herself. Apparently, according to Kori, you can never have too much garlic. For someone who could decorate elaborate cakes, invent cookie recipes, and work as a baker, you'd think ramen noodles would be easy. Not for Kori. She insisted she could never get them right. The water was wrong. The seasoning was wrong. The noodles were too soft... or not soft enough. Whenever she wanted ramen, she'd come find me. "Mom... will you make my ramen?" I'd remind her that she could make wedding cakes and gourmet desserts. She'd just pout. "Ramen noodles are my Achilles heel." So, naturally... I'd make the ramen. Perhaps my favorite memories, though, are watching her with River and Oakley. She patiently helped them decorate cupcakes and cookies, never worrying about the frosting that somehow ended up everywhere except where it was supposed to be. Their little hands were always sticky. Sprinkles covered the counters. Frosting found its way onto the table, the floor... and usually onto Kori herself. She never seemed to mind. For Kori, baking had never really been about making perfect desserts. It was about making people feel loved. When Maple came along. Kori instantly fell in love with her baby niece and looked forward to the day she would be old enough to stand on a chair beside her, frosting cookies and licking the spoon just like River and Oakley had done. That day never came, and my heart still aches for the memories they should have shared. I know Maple won't remember baking with her Aunt Riri, but through these stories, I hope she'll come to know just how excited Kori was to make those memories with her. Some of life's sweetest memories aren't found in the finished cake or the perfect cookie. They're found in the flour on the counter, music playing in the background, and the laughter shared with someone you love. Looking Back... Whenever I hear old music playing in a kitchen or smell something sweet baking in the oven, I can't help but smile. Those moments still feel like home because they're filled with memories of Kori. Every cake we decorated, every cookie we baked, and every song we sang together reminds me that the sweetest things we created were never the desserts themselves—they were the memories we made while making them.

"Baking is not just a skill—it's love, carefully folded into batter, layered with patience, and frosted with care."