Snapshots of the Bakeshop

Good evening, friends and neighbors.

 

Today, while creaming butter and sugar for coffee cake, I got to talking to Victoria who was herself between tasks. Up front, the baristas were zipping back, forth, in and out of the kitchen tending to a lengthy line of customers.

In the kitchen, however, things are smooth and mellow. The music of choice today is classic Dylan, slipped through with a little Hendrix, Bowie, and others. Victoria has interesting tastes and no one complained.
Victoria is shaking her head in bewilderment for a moment, deciding what to do next on her list. She has considerable experience cooking in commissary kitchens and restaurants- pastry kitchen and line. Never on a dessert line, though.

“That’d be pretty weird- what would I do? Just constant plating, but at line speed? Not sure I’m cut out for that.”

Victoria likes to be efficient- but on her timeline. She’d prefer to move along at her own- albeit quick- speed than have to keep pace with others, or under pressure from a chef or a sous.

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Standing Still In The Storm

Good evening, friends and neighbors.

When I was 13, my family would spend the evenings watching the original Iron Chef on TV. I was mesmerized watching the cooks and chefs fling food, whip, and wheel around each other- a ballet of orchestrated chaos that I’d learn to call “the dance” 15 years later.

In the center, like a stationary whirlwind, would sometimes stand my favorite Iron Chef- Masaharu Morimoto. Barely looking up, but barking instructions in Japanese to his cooks- and simply KNOWING they would be done. He called the dance, and controlled the storm from its eye.
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“I’m not a fighter, but in my mind I’m fighting every day. ‘What’s new? What am I doing?’ I’m fighting myself. My soul is samurai. My roots aren’t samurai, but my soul is.”

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Because It Isn’t All Sunshine and Rainbows

Good evening, friends and neighbors.You know it’s really easy to get lost?

At the moment, I’m staring out the window of (surprise surprise) a bar, looking out into the drizzling night of Portland. I just watched my waiter take- and I’m not kidding- a full 45 seconds to pour my beer into a glass.

The week was a trying one, and I do love my Thursday nights. I found a spiritual successor, if not psuedo-doppelgänger, to one of my favorite sit-down-and-blog pubs, but was politely hurried out as the dinner crowd came in. I completely get it- they couldn’t really hold a two-top for some writer shmuck that wasn’t expecting to drink anymore. I don’t bear them any grudge and will likely be back soon.

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