This was my original posting, but blogger ate it after publishing. Garrison was kind enough to relocate it for me, through the magic of RSS feeds. You rock, Mr. Steele. He likes this version better. I do, too. Self editing waters me down, and who wants a wet Puglet? Don't answer that.
Tuesday night and subsequent fallout and falling apart..
So (insert name of famous restaurant here) orders ( insert name of fancy roll here. Which I think tastes like poo, but who cares what I think..) daily. They had tripled the order for Wednesday. Walking in and seeing so much dough in so many states of proofing, you get a contact high from the alcohol released from the fermentation. We have several hundred sheet pans, yet production was so high they ran out of pans, and (insert name of fancy roll) were shaped and left on boards covered in parchment paper.
I transfer three hundred papers loadedwith rolls onto pans and they become available, and I cycle through those rolls for hours. Normally I have an end in sight, a way to gauge..I can see I have two racks of challah left, which means I can do brioche next, and then raise the temp and do my twists and sourdoughs. But I see no end. I cut crosses into the hundreds of dozens of soft rolls, unable to cheat because boss lady is present. I shiver in the walkin for an hour, stopping to shake my arm out between racks. My surgically repaired thumb is going numb. I have a baby carrot grafted onto myhand. It just LOOKS like a thumb.
I'm dashing between ovens, squeezing past sweat soaked bakers and metro racks loaded with loaves and bags, edging past tubs of proofing baguette dough. I have twenty minutes to load and empty the deck oven with focaccia before the baguette team needs it. Focaccia takes 30 minutes. P and I start sliding the pans into the oven as fast as wecan.W comes over. He must have sensed my stress, as he seems to thrive offof those stress pheremones.
You aren't THINKING of baking that yet, are you? He asks.
I'm not thinking about it, I am. I reply.
It's not PROOFED yet!
It's proofed FINE! They need the oven in 20 minutes!
That's hundreds of dollars worth of bread that's going to look like s**T..He mutters obscenities and storms off.
P looks frightened. I slam bread in harder.10 minutes later W concedes it's coming up fine, and must have been ok.Amazing, since I am such a moron. I've been baking this crap formonths..You'd think I know when it was ready to bake.
I'm blocking out the rest of the night.I wake up Wednesday. My eyes are sealed shut in the shower. My right arm is numb and I limp, grimacing, as I walk the dogs. I eat CocoaKrispies and Aleve for breakfast. I cry a bit. It is dark. It is cold. It is raining. I want my bed. I want my momma. I want a desk job.
Wednesday night I learn ( insert name of fancy restaurant ) was unhappy with ( insert name of fancy poo roll). They claimed they werebaked light and too flat. I want to cry. But no one complained about the focaccia. Yay for me. Although Thursday is Thanksgiving, there seems to be no let up in production. We consume too much beer at the end of the night. I am catty and mean, and everyone finds it hilarious.
Thursday night I wake up. I cry. I limp. I eat Cocoa Krispies. My parents call. They miss me. They tell me what they had for dinner.They try to make me talk to my sister. My brother. I don't want totalk. I head out to work and the streets are dark and empty. Starbucksis closed. I don't get my Frappucino. I fight back tears. I call M asI'm waiting for the bus. Alone. On empty streets. On Thanksgiving. I leave her a message about how miserable and alone I feel. And how tired I am. How very, very tired.So I finish my night again. Eat more Cocoa Krispies. Look under the sofa for a forgotten Nutrageous bar. Pop some Aleve. Hug the dogs.
Happy Thanksgiving.
This was my original posting, but blogger ate it after publishing. Garrison was kind enough to relocate it for me, through the magic of RSS feeds. You rock, Mr. Steele. He likes this version better. I do, too. Self editing waters me down, and who wants a wet Puglet? Don't answer that.
Tuesday night and subsequent fallout and falling apart..
So (insert name of famous restaurant here) orders ( insert name of fancy roll here. Which I think tastes like poo, but who cares what I think..) daily. They had tripled the order for Wednesday. Walking in and seeing so much dough in so many states of proofing, you get a contact high from the alcohol released from the fermentation. We have several hundred sheet pans, yet production was so high they ran out of pans, and (insert name of fancy roll) were shaped and left on boards covered in parchment paper.
I transfer three hundred papers loadedwith rolls onto pans and they become available, and I cycle through those rolls for hours. Normally I have an end in sight, a way to gauge..I can see I have two racks of challah left, which means I can do brioche next, and then raise the temp and do my twists and sourdoughs. But I see no end. I cut crosses into the hundreds of dozens of soft rolls, unable to cheat because boss lady is present. I shiver in the walkin for an hour, stopping to shake my arm out between racks. My surgically repaired thumb is going numb. I have a baby carrot grafted onto myhand. It just LOOKS like a thumb.
I'm dashing between ovens, squeezing past sweat soaked bakers and metro racks loaded with loaves and bags, edging past tubs of proofing baguette dough. I have twenty minutes to load and empty the deck oven with focaccia before the baguette team needs it. Focaccia takes 30 minutes. P and I start sliding the pans into the oven as fast as wecan.W comes over. He must have sensed my stress, as he seems to thrive offof those stress pheremones.
You aren't THINKING of baking that yet, are you? He asks.
I'm not thinking about it, I am. I reply.
It's not PROOFED yet!
It's proofed FINE! They need the oven in 20 minutes!
That's hundreds of dollars worth of bread that's going to look like s**T..He mutters obscenities and storms off.
P looks frightened. I slam bread in harder.10 minutes later W concedes it's coming up fine, and must have been ok.Amazing, since I am such a moron. I've been baking this crap formonths..You'd think I know when it was ready to bake.
I'm blocking out the rest of the night.I wake up Wednesday. My eyes are sealed shut in the shower. My right arm is numb and I limp, grimacing, as I walk the dogs. I eat CocoaKrispies and Aleve for breakfast. I cry a bit. It is dark. It is cold. It is raining. I want my bed. I want my momma. I want a desk job.
Wednesday night I learn ( insert name of fancy restaurant ) was unhappy with ( insert name of fancy poo roll). They claimed they werebaked light and too flat. I want to cry. But no one complained about the focaccia. Yay for me. Although Thursday is Thanksgiving, there seems to be no let up in production. We consume too much beer at the end of the night. I am catty and mean, and everyone finds it hilarious.
Thursday night I wake up. I cry. I limp. I eat Cocoa Krispies. My parents call. They miss me. They tell me what they had for dinner.They try to make me talk to my sister. My brother. I don't want totalk. I head out to work and the streets are dark and empty. Starbucksis closed. I don't get my Frappucino. I fight back tears. I call M asI'm waiting for the bus. Alone. On empty streets. On Thanksgiving. I leave her a message about how miserable and alone I feel. And how tired I am. How very, very tired.So I finish my night again. Eat more Cocoa Krispies. Look under the sofa for a forgotten Nutrageous bar. Pop some Aleve. Hug the dogs.
Happy Thanksgiving.