It’s matter of the it factor. I don’t have it, never have. Without it, baking is just glorified manual labor. I think about the anxiety that I was going through all for the sake of, what? I spoiled my health into submission, my thyroid gone lazy and my god my body is so revolting. I had great illusions for so long that I would end the cycle of abuse in foodservice, but I don’t think I am up to the challenge. The profit margins are too small, and there’s no room in the budget to afford the costs of being a human. After overhead the largest expenses are usually labor and butter, coming close to a tie. I guess I can’t blame the chefs for choosing butter over happiness.
Trust me, the end of the world is nothing like you imagined. It’s probably a muffin, or a misread order form. It’s 15 orders due at 10:00 a.m. and 14 of them are finished, and none of those are picked up. But the 15th shows up right on time.
It’s under-baked two minutes.
It’s the lie of a clean toothpick.
It’s slightly under-mixed or over-proofed or you probably forgot the salt.
Dear god pray you didn’t forget the salt.
Call in the National Guard, she forgot the salt.
Or it’s the button on the oven timer, always screaming. It’s when you check the timer, to see if the fucking-whatever is done and set it for 3 more minutes then you press start-and the button beeps but what has actually happened is you pressed the button so fast that you pressed it twice, so the clock stops again, hangs still at 2 minutes and 59 seconds and the fucking-whatever will burn. Because in the course of the next three minutes you will set your mind to at least 4 other tasks
and there is nothing like the smell of something burning to really make you contemplate suicide.
Though if you were to stick your head into the oven you probably wouldn’t even do that bit right.
I used to do my best writing in the kitchen. Repetitive tasks, the brief release earned by years of practice. Like a long drive on a mostly empty highway, like riding a bicycle as they say. Rolling croissants, rolling hundreds of them. That was nice, I wrote things then.
Perhaps it wasn’t really the rolling, the mind wandering. Maybe it was the pleasant terror that longing brings with it.
I am predictable at best and satisfied at worst, I am always in some unnecessary panic.
I am the pot calling the kettle, just to hang up when it goes to voicemail.
I am the pot that loved the kettle.
I am the pot that left the stove to all its burning.
I am the pot that can’t take the heat and honestly,
I just don’t see the point of putting all that hate into the world so that someone can eat breakfast and have no idea of all the pain that went into it.
Sugar and spice and everything is pointless.