A Slice of Meaning: On Finding Joy in Small Things

It begins with something simple. A plate. A fork. The faint scent of vanilla in the air. There is nothing dramatic about a slice of cake – and yet, sometimes, it can feel like salvation. Not in the grand, thunderclap sense of the word, but in the reassurance that there is still something good, something sweet, something uncomplicated to be found in the world.

In our current culture obsessed with significance, it’s easy to overlook the modest power of everyday pleasures. We are taught to seek meaning in accomplishments and to measure our lives by the size of our ambitions and the sharpness of our intellects. We learn to prize enterprise, productivity, resilience – as if the purpose of life is to build a monument of ourselves, visible from miles away. But life isn’t always monumental. More often, it is messy, unremarkable, and made bearable only by small, almost forgettable joys. 

Which is why cake matters.

Not just cake, of course. This could just as easily be about the first bite of toast on a cold morning, or the quiet joy of clean sheets on a tiring night, or watching sunlight move across a wooden floor. But cake – real cake, the kind made with care and eaten without guilt – stands in beautifully for the principle. It reminds us that pleasure doesn’t need to be earned, and that joy is not the same as distraction. Sometimes, cake is the meaning. 

This isn’t a call for indulgence or a rejection of ambition. But in our pursuit of big answers, we often forget to notice the small ones already in front of us. We climb the metaphorical mountain looking for truth, all the while ignoring the picnic we brought with us. It takes a certain clarity – and perhaps a little humility – to realise that the thing you needed was never at the summit, but in your rucksack all along, wrapped in foil and waiting in silence. 

Greats artists have always known this. Wayne Thiebaud, for instance, found dignity in dessert. He painted cakes not as objects of gluttony, but as icons of human joy – colourful, proud, lovingly detailed. Where some saw kitsch, he saw care. There is an insistence in his work that the ordinary is worth celebrating. That a pie can be painted like a cathedral. That a slice of lemon chiffon deserves as much attention as a still life of roses. 

This insistence on the beauty of the banal is more radical than it might seem. In a world that constantly urges us to be serious – to produce, to improve, to ascend – the act of sitting down and simply enjoying serves as a kind of gentle rebellion. Cake, in this sense, is not just food. It is a pause. A reminder. A protest against the idea that only what is hard, complicated or painful has value.

Pleasure has long had a PR problem. Too often, it is framed as trivial or unserious – the enemy of depth. But this ignores the emotional intelligence it takes to embrace joy without cynicism. To notice sweetness when it arrives. To let delight be enough, without asking it to prove itself. There is, in this, a kind of wisdom: the recognition that not everything meaningful has to be profound. 

This is especially important because so much of life is not under our control. We do not always get the things we want, or keep the things we love. Careers derail. Plans dissolve. People leave. And in those moments – when all the striving fails to shield us – what remains? Often, it’s the smallest comforts. A friend’s hand. A walk in the cold. A slice of something warm and sweet, reminding us that life, though bruised, still offers up moments of care. 

We tend to imagine meaning as something vast – something to be discovered, cracked open, like a code. But maybe it’s more like a recipe. Passed down, tinkered with, shared. Maybe the things that help us keep going are not revelations, but rituals. The Friday night treat. The birthday cake with too much icing. The way someone remembers just how you like your tea.

There’s no shame in this. In fact, there’s a certain courage in placing your faith in the small good things, especially when the big things feel uncertain. It takes trust to believe that a simple pleasure is worth your time. That it is not a lesser form of meaning, but a different one.

This might be why comfort food holds such power. It isn’t just about nostalgia, although that plays a part. It’s about reliability – about returning to something that works, that soothes, that doesn’t ask too many questions. In a world that so often demands that we justify ourselves – our choices, our emotions, our downtime – something as unassuming as cake becomes a kind of sanctuary. It doesn’t care about your CV or your five-year plan. It just invites you to sit, and eat, and be. 

Of course, it’s easy to dismiss this as sentimentality. But perhaps sentimentality deserves a bit more credit. It is, after all, a way of caring. A way of attaching value to things not because they’re useful, but because they matter to us. The softening of the heart is not a weakness; it’s how we stay human.

And what could be more human than delighting in cake? A food that serves almost no purpose beyond joy? It is impractical, unnecessary, and wonderful. It exists because someone decided that flour and eggs and sugar could become something better. That pleasure was worth pursuing. That beauty could be baked.

We forget this too easily – how much care is involved in the act of baking for others. How much love is wrapped up in measuring, mixing, waiting. The attention it takes. The quiet offering it becomes. To bake a cake for someone is to say: I want to make you happy, even just for a moment. And to accept that cake – to eat it with gratitude, without self-scolding – is to say: I accept your kindness. I welcome joy.

In that exchange is something deeply meaningful. No speeches. No grand gestures. Just cake, company, and a small, sweet moment that refuses to apologise for itself.

We spend so much of our lives preparing for the future – the next collection, the next job, the next version of ourselves we hope will finally be enough. But cake asks us to stop. To be here. To enjoy this. Not in some vague mindfulness sense, but in a very real, very grounded way. You have a slice. You eat it slowly. And for a few minutes, the world softens.

So no, cake won’t solve your existential crises. It won’t fix your heartbreak or make you suddenly understand your purpose. But it might, for a brief moment, remind you that things can still be good. That despite everything, there are still reasons to smile. And that, sometimes, is enough. 

Meaning is not always monumental. Sometimes, it’s served on a plate, with a cup of tea, and eaten with friends or alone in a quiet kitchen. It is soft, and sweet, and utterly ordinary. And that, perhaps, is where its true power lies.