A Scrap of Paper

I think it might still be in the pair of jeans I was wearing that Wednesday morning. I remember it being a little greased from the butter on my fingers. I remember it looking fragile folded into fours. A little slip of paper that held these words:

Jenny 6/10

1 - German Chocolate Frosting
2 - SMBC Frosting
3- Chocolate Silk Frosting

The little slip of a scrap of a piece of paper held on to a metal shelf on a brick wall by a binder clip. In front of my station in the sweets kitchen of the bakery. On most mornings over the past six months I have had the pleasure of watching frostings made, I have even assisted once or twice (the most recent time with Luis who hadn't made any of the frostings in ages and had to constantly consult his book for hints and who asked me to translate certain things into his spiraled pages so he would remember for the next time around), but I had never been assigned those to create on my own. My frostings were made at home, in my empire red Kitchen Aid with no more than a pound of butter or confectioner's sugar, never enough for more than two cups of frosting, never more than enough to frost a 9-inch layer cake. Definitely not what I was now tasked to make--enough to fill four to six tubs and each made with more butter than I typically purchase in an entire year.

I looked at the piece of paper and then at Wilna. And she smiled. It's easy enough she told me. You'll be fine. Tulia walked by later, prepping her butter for the frostings she thought she would make. Wilna's words again. Jenny is making the frosting today. And so I did. Melted chocolate. Creamed butter. Whipped egg whites. Heated yolks together with evaporated milk. Stirred. Whisked. Heated. Beat. Creamed. Mixed. Spooned. And labeled. Before me at the morning's end: one large container of German Chocolate Frosting, four tubs of SMBC frosting, and three of the chocolate. No lumps, thank you. And the SMBC held together in exactly the way I prayed it would as I saw the paddle attachment of the mixer whipping the whites into soft peaks and then staying in place as the creamed butter was added. Frosting that held together on my next morning when I was charged with frosting four red velvet cakes and the tubs I pulled had the familiar markings of my own handwriting. The same with the Devil's Food Cake I frosted later when I wished Christine a Happy 30th Birthday. Frosting that Lucia later used in her German Chocolate cake.

I plan to hold on to that scrap of paper for as long as the greased creases remain together. And then I'll bind them in tape. And then I'll put them in a keepsake box. The beauty is in the simple things. A simple scrap of paper that will always remind me that someone else gave me a challenge, knew I could do it, and then smiled at me as she saw me complete it successfully.

Frost! Frost! Frost! -- At the Bakery

I had a great morning there today. Cakes to frost. Happy Birthdays and Congratulations to wish. So many times when I place a cake in the box, making sure it is as perfect as it can be, I look down and think of the next time it will be viewed. What will Hallie or Jake or Noah think when they look at their name across the top of a red velvet or devil's food cake? Will they think my "B" or "C" crooked? Will they wish for more sprinkled confetti or for room to place an extra candle? Will they wish I used chocolate instead of blue or pink? Will they not care as they search in vain for that cake server or knife so they can slice through the thick layer of frosting? I make myself hungry. Not for cake. But to be a part of that experience. I want to bake a cake. And gift it.

My internship is coming to an end. Another four or so weeks and I will no longer walk into that kitchen, don my apron, hat, and mess towel. There are some mornings when dragging myself out of bed and thinking of the long day ahead of me (bakery, gym, work) I want nothing more than to call in to the bakery and make my excuses. But then I remember the great opportunity this has been and how little time I have left. So little time to stand side by side to some of the best bakers I have met. Men and women who learned not only in school but in the daily grind of early mornings or late nights. Men and women who stood side by side to great pastry chefs to learn when to perhaps use oil instead of eggs in a cupcake and why. Lessons I fear I might forget if I don't chronicle them and if I don't keep myself in a kitchen.

While I have been looking at other opportunities for internships this summer I am sad to report that no one is really responding. While you would think this experience would make me a shoe-in it seems as if school is still something people are looking first for. There is one slight opportunity that will take me off of the sweets path but will keep me in a professional kitchen. I can only keep my eyes and mind open and see where that leads me.

A Beautiful Day at the Bakery

Wednesday. I was tired. I haven't been sleeping well the past few nights and worry the same will happen tonight (blame the sinus pressure and the NyQuil not kicking in fast enough ... I guess I can also blame the random web surfing that is keeping me occupied enough to stay awake but to run off on tangents ... FOCUS). The bakery. On Wednesday. Right? Yes!

I was exhausted. And looked it apparently (as commented by the little flitting Tinkerbell). My assignment that day was to frost cakes. Lots of them. Loads. There was a six inch red velvet with the most random birthday inscription I have ever come across and a challenge to fit on the small face of the cake. But, mission accomplished.

There were more red velvet cakes. An Achilles heel (much like pancakes, baguettes, some pastas, you get the picture). I could never slather on enough of the buttercream to get the cake to look just as I really wanted it to look. Perhaps I thought too much. Perhaps I allowed myself too much time to frost each cake. Not so much on Wednesday. Too make cakes. I got to work, pulled out the off set spatula, gave the buttercream a good turn, flipped over the first layer, frosted, cleaned, smoothed, flipped on the second, frosted, cleaned smoothed, and then decorated as instructed. Perfect. Even by my standard. There were four more like it before I moved on to other cakes.

A good day. An accomplished day. And I got to squeeze in a Pilates class before work. Joy!

I'm Not Yet Awake ...

and forgot to chronicle the tales of yesterday's day at the bakery.

I was scheduled to work with the little wandering Tinkerbell again but she was not in yet by the time I arrived. So instead the head baker had me start her work. Yes, an intern, not yet in school, baking 30 yellow cakes that would later be topped with chocolate or a buttercream and displayed and sold or delivered with a "Happy Birthday Christopher." I creamed the butter. Weighed the sugar. Sifted the flour. Beat the eggs. Doing all of this while the head baker opted to help me by prepping my cake pans. I was left alone to make the cakes. Left alone in my own little utopia where I joked and chatted in English and broken Spanish. And where in later weighing the batter per cake pan I realized where I might have not paid the most attention. A lesson learned and retained for next time and for my own kitchen experimentation. Each day always delivering a lesson in patience and in paying full attention.

The time flew by and before I knew it the cakes were cooling, Tinkerbell was at work at red velvet cakes, I had already frosted three Devil's Food cakes, and was on my way to wishing Christopher a "Happy Birthday" written out in broken cursive and surrounded by confetti.

At The Bakery

As if my life didn't have enough craziness in it (or enough things of interest I seek to follow and spend time on), I have been interning at a bakery for the past few months (with only a couple of more remaining ... sigh!).

Why I haven't included it in this blog or posted it in the world outside of the protective bubble of close friends and family, I don't know. But here it is.

I never know what the day will hold every time I walk into the kitchen, apron tightly tied, mess rag tucked firmly and safely in its strings. I only know when the head baker shares the pastry chef's list. I could be scooping cookies, baking macaroons, or frosting cakes. Yesterday I was set to work with another baker. A spritely little baker who flies every where and had two major cake batters working at the same time, utilizing both available industrial mixers. One whipping egg whites for the German Chocolate cake and the other already creaming the butter for the lemon cakes. I could hardly keep tabs on her. She was flitting about and I couldn't keep my eyes focused on her.

What was amazing was that she always stopped long enough to pull me away from sifting flour, or weighing egg whites to have me look at the batter in its various stages, to know when the butter was properly creamed, to know at what point you could incorporate more of the beaten eggs, to know how much of the flour and at what speed you should pour in to the batter before alternating with the liquid.

Flitting about but moving almost in slow motion when I heard "Chica, come here."