They’re baaack. Back to school, back to bottlenecking the train station, back to blocking the entrance to the bakery. The Be-Hip-Or-Be-Square outfits are fresh off the rack and out of the shopping bags. I, of course, did not refresh my autumn work wardrobe. Inching my way through the labyrinth of still-tan scone-starved individuals assembled on the sidewalk, I get a better look at my ensemble. On their own, the black and white checkered pants and purple t-shirt are harmless enough. It’s the mad-dash paisley bandana and orange ankle socks that brand me a Glamour Don’t. One of the morning regulars is sipping a macchiato and looks up to greet me. There is a small salt and pepper dog at his feet. The dog sees me and starts barking wildly. Mr. Macchiato admonishes his dog, but the pooch refuses to cease. One of the other caffeinated gentleman can’t help but notice the socks and asks,“Rough start?” You could say that.
This is a holiday weekend for the masses, but my two day weekend does not commence until 4 pm on Saturday. There are many miles of pie to travel between now and then. Vying for my attention are fifty pounds of peaches, huddled together in blond wooden crates. The yellow peaches are less sweet, the white peaches less ripe. This peach challenge is what Master/Master would refer to as a Personal Problem. It will be tackled after I fill a cup with ice and full strength cold brew.
Peeling and pitting, I am desperately trying to hold on to my vacation state of mind. The oven timer refuses to accommodate my quest for serenity, buzzing impatiently, demanding attention. Customers are needy too, ordering apples cakes and honey cakes to usher in the Jewish New Year. “What about gluten free?” a woman asks from behind her tinted Warby Parkers. “And dairy free?”
Must we start the day this way? Ms. Warby continues, “Are there nuts in the honey cake?” I so wish to respond, “Are there nuts ordering the honey cake?” I do not. Instead, bobbing and weaving to protect myself from a blazing hot sheet tray, I return to my peaches. They may be fuzzy, but they do not judge me.
It wouldn’t be a weekend without a few cake surprises. There’s an order for a red velvet that has yet to be confirmed. “Sooo this is not an order, correct?” I inquire. The response is, “It’s not confirmed. But if she orders it, she definitely wants red velvet.” More urgently and taking center stage is my favorite, a gender reveal cake. In the four years I’ve tucked my curls beneath a bandana and donned a white apron, I cannot recall an order quite like this. The cake is both gluten free and dairy free. It is nut free but carrot friendly. It is frosted on the outside in dairy-free frosting. The inside will reveal the gender (in this case, a pink dairy-free reveal.) To keep the guests guessing, the cake will be festooned with both pink and blue painstakingly hand-crafted fondant polka dots. The pièce de résistance lies not within the gender reveal, but in the inscription, “We’re Here For The Sex.”
Deciding to step away from the cake side of the bench, I return to my peeler and paring knife where everything is peachy. At least until Tuesday when the apples start rollin’ in.
Professional Pie-isms & Seasonal Sarcasm