Soldier down, somewhere by the brown sugar and flour.

pasty chef

A story from my days as a pastry chef.

By the time Friday rolled around, I’d been putting too much stock in banking up a week’s worth of shorted sleep. Monday had been the start of the deficit, and somehow that trickled through the week until I found myself dragging to work on Friday, barely remembering the walk I took to get there.

I managed to make the usual two quiche.

Some dishes were scrubbed.

It was about 10 a.m., while making the molasses cookies, that I cashed in my chips.

I was short brown sugar, so, with half of the ingredients creamed in the mixing bowl, I went to the back room to get another bag of it.

Fifteen minutes later I woke up, the left side of my face against the box of powdered sugar and my left shoulder propped up against a bulk pack of paper towels. What led me to that position was a brief eight-second discussion in my head, as I reached for the brown sugar, on the benefits of simply sitting down on the floor and curling up between the box on the shelf and the wall and taking a nap.

It seemed a good idea at the time.

When I walked back into the kitchen with the brown sugar, my coworkers looked at me.

“Where were you?” they asked. Either I’d had some difficulty in the restroom or the brown sugar that I’d said I was getting was really, really hidden.

“Just taking a nap back in the store room on the floor between the shelves.”

With barely a pause, they went back to work.

Apparently, that’s not a surprising turn of events.

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  1. says

    Wow — “quiche” is its own plural? I just went and looked it up (not that I distrust you, but we all miss a key now and then), and … whuddya know? It is! Or can be, at least.

    In the unlikely event that I ever make one than one quiche at a time, I’ll be sure to use that knowledge.

    Thank you for teaching me something. I was planning to get all offended by this post, but now I’m feeling so good that I just can’t do it. Next time, OK?

  2. Brendt Wayne Waters says

    1986. My first co-op job. I had been up all night (the night before) helping a friend prepare for a calculus test. Around 10 AM, I shut my office door (even the co-ops had offices back then). I placed my head on my left forearm and my right hand on the spacebar of my monitor. I was actually getting mini-naps in the 90 or so seconds that it took the cursor to “space” to the end of the input field, triggering the monitor to beep — my alarm clock. Backspace to the beginning of the input field and repeat.

    After about 20 minutes of this, another co-op knocked on my door and came in to invite me to join him on a run to the cafeteria. He stopped mid-sentence when he saw the bright red mark on my forehead. He revised his invitation to offering to go get me caffeine and letting me stay in my office until I no longer appeared to have a very specific sunburn.

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