Worse than my first week of high school. Worse than my first week of middle school. But I managed to move into a commercial kitchen.
Baking isn’t new to me. Nor is baking as work. What’s new is baking in an industrial space filled with industrious people. People who seem to know what they’re doing. And who seem to suspect that I don’t.
Not that they lacked evidence. I dropped an egg. I burned my nose. I immolated the microwave.
I attempted macarons, tricky at any time, on day two. I folded and piped and pushed the pan into a convection oven named, ominously, Vulcan. Peering through the dark glass, I watched the delicate disks rise, then topple in the scorching blast. That’s when I noticed the red switch toggled to “high.”
I learned to shout “Corner!” I learned to knock on the refrigerator door. I learned that the freezer, which is freezing, is a good spot for a deep breath.
One compatriot muttered that I was overdoing it on the mop. Another snapped that I’d failed to pitch the “wet floor” tent. The broom closet is not a good spot for a deep breath.
By day three, I had used up my weekly allotment of hours, six of my three aprons, and 10 of my four dish towels. I had mastered the three-compartment sink and lost my favorite knife.
I decided to pack up my tart tins. I didn’t belong. A pro glanced up from his phone, leaned over my bench, and asked if I needed anything from Restaurant Depot. Maybe I could belong.
By the end of the week, with the assistance of my able intern (who prefers anonymity), I had produced 10 dozen apricot bars, nine dozen candied rose petals, seven dozen espresso cookies, four dozen crackers, three dozen cupcakes, two mousse cakes, one asparagus tart, and some sad, sloping macarons. Also a simple chocolate layer cake. It reminded me of home. Crumbs, compared with the heroes shaping 1,200 loaves of bread. Still, a start.
After hours, arches achy, dress damp, I found my food-service license in the mail. Which means I’m official. And officially committed.