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.