A dozen bakeries.
This is the body of my current resume.
When i was fifteen i got my first job.
Pegasus.
A charmed brick building in the marina covered in variegated ivy that was (and is) home to a coffee shop. Most of my work consisted of making espresso drinks and closing the shop in the evening, of this i recall very little, mostly turning up the Indigo Girls and rocking out while i vacuumed. (Rockin.)
However, on occasion i would get asked to do an opening shift on a Sunday,
blessed were those quiet hazy mornings near the water.
i would arrive generally around dawn when the bakers were there pulling hot scones from the ovens...
i began arriving earlier and earlier to assist them with their baking and creating before setting to my opening tasks. Rolling cinnamon roll dough in particular was enchanting. A long gleaming shining silver table with giant slabs of dough being spread across them, slathered with almost melted butter, sparkling sugar and a fog of cinnamon spice. This was then tucked into itself by rolling it tightly and sealing with an almost kiss. After being sliced into snail like creatures with a sharp blade of steel, each was placed on a baking sheet covered in parchment (a magical kitchen tool indeed!) and slid into a hot oven. When the smell of cinnamon and spice had overtaken the tiny kitchen, you knew it was time to pull them from their brief warm home and inhale their rapture. A drizzle of glaze was the crowning glory to these morsels of delight.
This was not my first experience with baking, my mothers kitchen offered many opportunities for creation. However, this marked the beginning of a long love affair with kitchens in commercial bakeries that i have yet to recover from.
There is part of me that believes that is a good thing and that the best, is yet to come.
