Overnight Baker

 

By

 

Jeff Brochu

 

Cockroaches. Big big black flying medieval cockroaches. In the all purpose flour. Legs up and dead on the kneading table. Falling from the ceiling when I turn on the lights…or are they attacks? I suppose I could scrape the dried tomato sauce from the kneeding table, but why should I, if they don’t? And besides…it kills off some of the roaches. As for the wet smelly towels on the floor? By the time I get to work there are no clean ones. So I work hard to avoid comprimised food contact surfaces. I do my part. Sometimes more when the money is right and I’m treated well. But I’ll let two days garbage rot in the trash barrels before I clean up after those two. And if all three of the pot sinks are full of scummy pots and pans then I’ll just work around them.

The bakery closed for the night 8 hours ago. The two owners? Chef Timmy and the other guy? They say the roaches are here only because of the hotel being built next door.

Does that matter? They are still here. The owners and the roaches.

And so am I.

Timmy and the other guy, they sell fresh home made bread. Rye, Whole Wheat, Pumpernickle and White. It’s the bread that I came here to learn how to bake. But they’re cheap, chemical laden, frozen products. It’s the same for most of the cookies. And I can make cookies. I like to make cookies. The pie and quiche shells? More frozen products. But you’d never know. They’ll tell you it’s all fresh. Home made. Baked daily. Should you care? Should I? The food tastes good. Real good.

It’s my time now. I do the over night baking. You’ll never see me. Do you want a fresh warm blueberry muffin at 07:00 before you go to work? Somebody has got to make it. That somebody is me. Midnight to 06:00 five days a week. $9.00 an hour. I can survive on that in the deep south. If I steal ham and turkey sandwiches at the bakery. If the ham and turkey aren’t a couple of weeks old.

Is it stealing if they promised me a raise and didn’t deliver? Screw them and their bait and switch. 40 hours became 30 when I got real good at the job. There was no raise. A ham sandwich is justified. And maybe some chips and a cranberry juice to go with it.

Here’s my blueberry muffin recipe. And no it’s not the one you’ll be getting when you come into the “bakery”. That one came from a famous cook book and it’s really good. But the chef? The one with his name on the door? He modifies and calls it creating. This recipe is one I created by myself way back when I was a kid. Back when I first fell in love with baking. And with blueberries. We used to pick the blueberries off of the bush in our New England backyard. That was some 35 years ago. Before my blond hair got grey. And no I didn’t use soy milk back then. I’m a little, well actually a lot more health conscious now.

 

1/2 cup honey

2 table spoons aloe vera gel

2 large eggs                                                                                                    

2 cups whole wheat flour      

2 table spoons baking powder 

1 cup soy milk     

2 cups blueberries

                            

Blend honey and aloe together well. Beat in both eggs until combined. Sift flour and baking powder together and add to honey/aloe/egg mixture. Mix in soy milk until just combined. Do not over mix. Fold in Blueberries. Makes 12 individual 2 ounce muffins. Cook at 350 degrees for 40 minutes.

 

 

I love that muffin.

 

I’d love to have a woman and kids someday to make them for.

There are times when I go to bed alone in the morning, wearing my favorite chef’s coat, one of the ones with my name on it, and I wonder what my contributions to the world might be. I wonder how I’ll be remembered. If I’ll be remembered. Will it be my muffin? It’s not bean easy for me to find a woman while toiling in kitchens. Often it’s just me and the callers and hosts of the late night radio talk shows. Me and the ghosts, trapped in these old haunted restaurants. Me and the fat flying cockroaches and at 06:00 the owners with other dreams who are just out to make a buck. They write me a check every two weeks. I bake the products. Sometimes I squash the roaches. Sometimes I don’t.

You pay for the fresh baked goods.

You eat the food. I don’t.

I get a pay check every other week.

It’s not my name on the door.

It’s not my restaurant.