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So I haven't been around lately, mainly because I've been busy with the guv'mint, as it turns out immigration is fairly fucking time consuming, and also because I was "hired" to make a cake for someone's wedding.
Now when I say "hired" what I really mean is "wheedled until I do it out of annoyance". As a currently non-Greencard carrying immigrant to this fine country, I'm not able to work until my paperwork is finished and I get the seal of approval from Uncle Sam. So, no, I haven't been working "under the table", which is where all the really nasty stuff goes on, but rather I've been taking odd baking jobs on for free to keep busy and sharp, because let me tell you your ability to make phyllo dough goes to SHIT if you don't use it regularly.
There is a restaurant my husband and I frequent when we drag ourselves back sweaty and delirious once a month from riding roller coasters until we puke at the local theme park. I've always been particularly sympathetic to wait staff due to a long, merciless tenure in their ranks, and as such usually wind up getting friendly with them and sticking with a particular waiter or waitress for each place we got to. It's blatant favourtism on my part -- if you can remember how I like my coffee from visit to visit, I'm yours for life, like a particularly pitiful little puppy.
The waitress at this joint is a girl named J, and J is about to get married. On this visit last week, J mentions she hasn't yet picked out a wedding cake. I allow as how this could be an issue, since any bakery worth it's salt usually requires a large heads up for things of this nature. J doesn't think it will be a problem, however, as J knows I am a baker, and wouldn't it be super if I could please please make her cake for her?
Eeeeeeeeeh.
Oh, but please? It would mean so much to her!
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeh. It's not just modesty here. I've never handled any real decorating, mainly being the person in charge of making sure the cake is orgasmic for the five seconds it's in your mouth, and the idea of being in charge of something for such a big event makes me uncomfortable. I tell her so. I further tell her that, besides, I don't have any access to a proper oven or decent pans.
Plus, I hate brides. Most bakers do. I can say this from both sides of the fence because when I was a bride-to-be, I'm pretty sure my baker hated me, too. I'd show up with a caffeinated glint in my eye, brandishing some ridiculous over-stuffed design I'd downloaded off a website in grainy poor quality at 3am in red ink because my printer was out of everything else and expect a miracle. No matter how sweet the girl is, when the wedding rolls around, Zuul is in residence and He wants his fucking puff pastry PERFECT or so help your soul.
J assures me that it's a small wedding. Tiny, really. Miniscule! Twenty people, including herself and her beau, and she just wants a simple yellow cake with buttercream icing. She doesn't care how it looks, really. She just desperately wants a cake.
After a lot more waffling and trying to gently put her down, I finally agree to do it -- for free. I'm not comfortable accepting cash for this, so she can consider it a wedding present. Besides, it'll at least be something to do, and I'm sure my husband would rather I was keeping busy with this than befriending every stray cat in the neighbourhood and the raccoon that lives behind out compost pile. Yeah, hey, it'll be great fun! When is the blessed event anyway?
"Oh, Friday!"
I hate brides.
But, again, she doesn't want much, so I can pull it off. She doesn't want much, just a simple basket weave icing design so she can put some flowers on it herself. For those of you unfamiliar with this eye-straining technique ( http://www.pastrywiz.com/wedding/wedding6.htm ), no, it is not particularly difficult, but it is time consuming. Especially over three large tiers.
Especially when the bride calls you the night before she picks it up to casually ask if you can make another tier because she just invited ten more people. And then bursts into wet, snuffly, hysterical sobs when you tell her she's a fucking fruitcake.
I hate brides.
But, you know, I pull it off. I haul out the pans and I take another go at it and manage to turn out one more big tier. I'm up until five in the morning. The cake constantly flits in and out of the fridge because the icing wants to soften in the Florida heat. The cats want to help. Everyone suddenly wants to call me all at once. I turned down a trip to the drive-in, man, the fucking drive-in! That's two movies for five dollars and the ability to hoot at the screen as much as you want! I abandon all the writing I'd planned to finish. The husband goes out for coffee several times and leaves the little styrafoam cups like offers at the kitchen door, fearful of the diablerie within. I emerge from the kitchen like Grandpa Munster after a goofy experiment, wildly swatting away billowing clouds of smoke.
Okay, not really. BUT ALMOST.
By the time J shows up to collect her cake at 1 PM I am a fucking wreck. But satisfied. I really wish I'd taken a photo, because that was some hardcore basket weave right there. I mean, for reals. It was tight and neat. The icing, like the cake itself, is entirely homemade. No boxed stuff for me, thanks.
Turns out maybe I shouldn't have bothered.
"Oh." J says, when I lead her to the kitchen where her tiers rest in separate little boxes I went out and bought especially for their transport. "You just did the basket weave, huh?"
The coffee I'm sipping from -- my fourth that day -- pauses en route to my mouth. I stare at her over the rim. "Yes. Because . . . that's what you asked for."
Her mouth twists a little, she frowns and tugs on a lock of freshly permed hair. "Ye-eeeeaaah, but . . . I figured you'd, you know, use your discretion. Make something else. Like roses."
I set the coffee cup down. Nothing is in reach for me to use as a weapon, which is probably a good thing. "You didn't ASK for that." I say quietly. "You just said 'basket weave'."
"Well . . . " She heaves a sigh. A truly respectable one that almost causes the curtains on the other side of the room to flutter. "I guess if that's all you could be bothered to do . . . what flavour is it?"
"Yellow. Like you asked for."
Now she starts to scowl. "Yeah, but, like . . . I was thinking, marble isn't that hard to do. Why didn't you do that?"
My hands are doing that involuntary flexing/grasping thing they do when I get really frustrated. "Because you didn't ask me to."
"You're not a very good baker, are you?" J plants her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes. "I was going to give you this fifty for it, but if you can't keep a customer happy, I don't think I should."
" . . . that's right." I say after a beat. "You shouldn't, even though I did this for free anyway. I guess I should have told you about my fee."
"Fee?"
"Fifty percent, sweetheart." I say with a grin.
Despite the screams, the tears, the threats and the begging, she leaves with only the two smallest tiers out of the four I made.
And then I call up everyone I know and have a cake party. After putting a piece outside for the raccoon.
I hate brides.
Now when I say "hired" what I really mean is "wheedled until I do it out of annoyance". As a currently non-Greencard carrying immigrant to this fine country, I'm not able to work until my paperwork is finished and I get the seal of approval from Uncle Sam. So, no, I haven't been working "under the table", which is where all the really nasty stuff goes on, but rather I've been taking odd baking jobs on for free to keep busy and sharp, because let me tell you your ability to make phyllo dough goes to SHIT if you don't use it regularly.
There is a restaurant my husband and I frequent when we drag ourselves back sweaty and delirious once a month from riding roller coasters until we puke at the local theme park. I've always been particularly sympathetic to wait staff due to a long, merciless tenure in their ranks, and as such usually wind up getting friendly with them and sticking with a particular waiter or waitress for each place we got to. It's blatant favourtism on my part -- if you can remember how I like my coffee from visit to visit, I'm yours for life, like a particularly pitiful little puppy.
The waitress at this joint is a girl named J, and J is about to get married. On this visit last week, J mentions she hasn't yet picked out a wedding cake. I allow as how this could be an issue, since any bakery worth it's salt usually requires a large heads up for things of this nature. J doesn't think it will be a problem, however, as J knows I am a baker, and wouldn't it be super if I could please please make her cake for her?
Eeeeeeeeeh.
Oh, but please? It would mean so much to her!
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeh. It's not just modesty here. I've never handled any real decorating, mainly being the person in charge of making sure the cake is orgasmic for the five seconds it's in your mouth, and the idea of being in charge of something for such a big event makes me uncomfortable. I tell her so. I further tell her that, besides, I don't have any access to a proper oven or decent pans.
Plus, I hate brides. Most bakers do. I can say this from both sides of the fence because when I was a bride-to-be, I'm pretty sure my baker hated me, too. I'd show up with a caffeinated glint in my eye, brandishing some ridiculous over-stuffed design I'd downloaded off a website in grainy poor quality at 3am in red ink because my printer was out of everything else and expect a miracle. No matter how sweet the girl is, when the wedding rolls around, Zuul is in residence and He wants his fucking puff pastry PERFECT or so help your soul.
J assures me that it's a small wedding. Tiny, really. Miniscule! Twenty people, including herself and her beau, and she just wants a simple yellow cake with buttercream icing. She doesn't care how it looks, really. She just desperately wants a cake.
After a lot more waffling and trying to gently put her down, I finally agree to do it -- for free. I'm not comfortable accepting cash for this, so she can consider it a wedding present. Besides, it'll at least be something to do, and I'm sure my husband would rather I was keeping busy with this than befriending every stray cat in the neighbourhood and the raccoon that lives behind out compost pile. Yeah, hey, it'll be great fun! When is the blessed event anyway?
"Oh, Friday!"
I hate brides.
But, again, she doesn't want much, so I can pull it off. She doesn't want much, just a simple basket weave icing design so she can put some flowers on it herself. For those of you unfamiliar with this eye-straining technique ( http://www.pastrywiz.com/wedding/wedding6.htm ), no, it is not particularly difficult, but it is time consuming. Especially over three large tiers.
Especially when the bride calls you the night before she picks it up to casually ask if you can make another tier because she just invited ten more people. And then bursts into wet, snuffly, hysterical sobs when you tell her she's a fucking fruitcake.
I hate brides.
But, you know, I pull it off. I haul out the pans and I take another go at it and manage to turn out one more big tier. I'm up until five in the morning. The cake constantly flits in and out of the fridge because the icing wants to soften in the Florida heat. The cats want to help. Everyone suddenly wants to call me all at once. I turned down a trip to the drive-in, man, the fucking drive-in! That's two movies for five dollars and the ability to hoot at the screen as much as you want! I abandon all the writing I'd planned to finish. The husband goes out for coffee several times and leaves the little styrafoam cups like offers at the kitchen door, fearful of the diablerie within. I emerge from the kitchen like Grandpa Munster after a goofy experiment, wildly swatting away billowing clouds of smoke.
Okay, not really. BUT ALMOST.
By the time J shows up to collect her cake at 1 PM I am a fucking wreck. But satisfied. I really wish I'd taken a photo, because that was some hardcore basket weave right there. I mean, for reals. It was tight and neat. The icing, like the cake itself, is entirely homemade. No boxed stuff for me, thanks.
Turns out maybe I shouldn't have bothered.
"Oh." J says, when I lead her to the kitchen where her tiers rest in separate little boxes I went out and bought especially for their transport. "You just did the basket weave, huh?"
The coffee I'm sipping from -- my fourth that day -- pauses en route to my mouth. I stare at her over the rim. "Yes. Because . . . that's what you asked for."
Her mouth twists a little, she frowns and tugs on a lock of freshly permed hair. "Ye-eeeeaaah, but . . . I figured you'd, you know, use your discretion. Make something else. Like roses."
I set the coffee cup down. Nothing is in reach for me to use as a weapon, which is probably a good thing. "You didn't ASK for that." I say quietly. "You just said 'basket weave'."
"Well . . . " She heaves a sigh. A truly respectable one that almost causes the curtains on the other side of the room to flutter. "I guess if that's all you could be bothered to do . . . what flavour is it?"
"Yellow. Like you asked for."
Now she starts to scowl. "Yeah, but, like . . . I was thinking, marble isn't that hard to do. Why didn't you do that?"
My hands are doing that involuntary flexing/grasping thing they do when I get really frustrated. "Because you didn't ask me to."
"You're not a very good baker, are you?" J plants her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes. "I was going to give you this fifty for it, but if you can't keep a customer happy, I don't think I should."
" . . . that's right." I say after a beat. "You shouldn't, even though I did this for free anyway. I guess I should have told you about my fee."
"Fee?"
"Fifty percent, sweetheart." I say with a grin.
Despite the screams, the tears, the threats and the begging, she leaves with only the two smallest tiers out of the four I made.
And then I call up everyone I know and have a cake party. After putting a piece outside for the raccoon.
I hate brides.
-a-thon all by herself.
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