32 Celcius

Other than the occasional jostle of the cooks

as they reach around my legs for tools,

I stand in my corner alone.

Melted chocolate pools shiny on my cold marble. I massage and stir it with my palette, watching it firm, be controlled into temper.

I can tell now

(without my thermometer)

that it has given up-

been tamed

is ready.

We speak the same language.

It goes back to the bowl to rewarm, in anticipation of what it will become.

Emulsification

I should know better, than to pour the melted butter to the cream-
though through trickery
I have made them change their state...

the cream- like butter was-
is now cold cold and unyielding,
the butter as cream,
warm and wanting-

I should know better....

Yes it is possible
to make these two unlikes meet--
mix

and with the right amount of variables
create beauty.

smoothness
perfection...

but it is oh so brief
and the process
it tires you-

all the stirring-
agitation.

It needs so much attention.

And the cream can only tame the butter for so long-
butter always pulls away-

and is true to its original form.

Yeast

(He must have had a hard day again today, I can hear his footfalls on the pavement. Sometimes he runs harder, panting. Other days he passes silently.)

It is dark.

We are the only ones up at this hour. Us and the man with the key to the city. He always opens the door for me. He won't take my money.

He will take a danish. Without the glaze.

I flip the switch on the ancient oven before I turn on the light. The extra seconds count. It whines in protest. I scold it gently.

Be good to me today.

I am hypnotized by the slapping of the dough. It hits the sides of the mixer, a violent sound in all this quiet.

I flour my bench.

Today I shall think about the things I don’t want to think about-its easier when my hands are busy.

I pinch a piece of dough out of the mixer. Kneed it in my fingers.

Intention vs Intent.

I make the window pane. What lies beyond is hazy.

She sits in the bucket behind me, protesting. She is hungry.

I'll feed the bitch later.

Later, later.

The dough is perfect today.

I knead with purpose, make the round, and as I cover her to rest I list my mistakes.

Intention vs Action.

Now I know the recipe by heart. I understand the cryptic code of those before me. The water may not be enough, it may be too much, you must watch, you must trust.

Instinct.

I still don't trust my own power, my alchemy. For now he still comes to watch.

Soon I will be left alone, with the oven and the bitch.

Soon they will line up to get whatever they can, as much as I can make.

Soon they will marvel at my crust, speak of my hand and how only I can make that taste.

The one that reminds them.

For now, he stands beside me and we work in comfortable silence, broken only by the slap and skid of dough on flour.

As you sleep, the yeast gives life.

As you sleep, I make the rounds.

As you sleep, I shape the bread.

As you sleep

I list my mistakes and think as only busy hands can.