She hangs up without ceremony, and I punch the air in victory. Within an instant, the vacuum inside of my head loosens. Work provides structure, and I’m always planted when there’s structure.
I move around with the force of a tornado. Long gone is the thought about peeing on some test strip for me to know how long it’ll be until my heat crashes into me.
It won’t be today, and that’s all that matters.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m weaving my way through a line that’s out the door. The Gilded Lady is packed with people staring at empty shelves, and chaos greets me the further I get into the bakery.
Boxes are stacked near the countertop. Cooling racks are spread everywhere, loaded with cake layers. A woman in a bright floral apron with her hair pulled back stands with her back to the customers, the nape of her neck glistening with sweat.
I slip behind the counter before she whips her head in my direction.
“Oh, thank fuck,” she says breathlessly as she sets the bowl of batter down in her arms. She points to the back room. “Everything you need is back there. Make sure to wash your hands in hot water for thirty seconds before you get started.”
No hello.
No small talk.
This is going to be great. “Give me half an hour and I’ll be pulling the first batch out of the oven.”
Within minutes, I’m elbow-deep in compote and flour. The steadyshhhinkof the metal dough scraper against the stainless-steel kitchen island grounds me in the moment. I move like clockwork, rolling out pastry dough and filling the middles with compote.
The first batch slides into the oven only ten minutes after I get back there, and Tansy is already peeking her head in.
“You got a creative brain, or a science brain?”
“Huh?” I ask as I peer over my shoulder at her.
“What kind of baker are you?” she asks. “Creative or scientific?”
I’ve never had someone ask me that question before. “I’d say creative. Why?”
“Give me your first thoughts: got a bride that wants lavender accents in her cake but no purple.”
The answer comes immediately. “White base with dried culinary lavender?”
She points at me. “You’re hired.”
I bark with laughter when she disappears back to the front of the bakery.
Time always bends and silences itself when I’m baking. The measurements and the textures, the constant taste-testing—it’s overwhelming in the best ways.
The hum of the mixers backdrops the scent of sugar warming and melting on the stovetop. My mind stops chewing on itself for a while as thoughts of the guys fade into the background.
That’s why I love baking. It pulls me out of myself.
The instant I pull trays out of the oven, Tansy is using oven mitts to take them from me. It’s stunning to me that she doesn’t even have time to let them cool before dishing them out to paying customers.
After I close the ovens to let them come back to temperature, I peer through the doorway and watch as person after person leaves with a smile on their face.
With one of my pastries halfway to their mouths.
I could only dream of having customers like this one day.
It takes us around two hours to push through the morning rush before Tansy joins me in the back room. I place the last tray of cheese Danishes on the cooling rack, my shoulders aching in that satisfying way that says I’ve accomplished something.
I turn, wiping at my forehead with the back of my hand, and find Tansy leaning against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest.
“So,” she says with a grin, “you didn’t crumble under the pressure. I’m impressed.”
