I’m at capacity . . . with one customer. Spent Wednesday as if a Russian doll trapped inside an oven, inside a sweltering stagnant air house, inside of a humid day on planet Earth. Mixing and kneading, rolling and baking for four hours. With toasty craftsmanship wrapped up in linen napkins, I finally scurried off to a pre-arranged sale, late.
Carla enthusiastically prodded this week’s surprise item – a pillowy flatbread out of Georgia, perfect for nesting seasoned meat or veggie bites. Before she could finish her first ‘Ohhhh,’ I brought out more surprises. Next came my take on a homemade Cheez-It minus orange dye. By this point persons from back offices sniffed their way out front.
A true fan, Carla went to work for me. All loaves, brownies, crackers and flatbreads were sold in a matter of 5 minutes. Soliciting jokes from the state Ranger aside, I exited the office crowd exactly $27 dollars the richer.
And now Math story problems infiltrate my dream space. How many loaves must I cook all at once to maximize 45 minutes of oven heat? How many more counter tops and clay bread bakers can I make or buy in the next, say, week? Then how do I make more of everything in the same amount of time? What were my ingredient costs, again?
I will not be calculating my hourly wage anytime soon for fear of total self diminuation.
Baking for those who savor a good loaf will have to be enough of a reason to keep going. Four weeks in, Carla lays her likes and dislikes out in simple chit-chat. I take mental note, and the following week I bake anew.
My father’s homemade bread remains the culprit. Not his spoken advice or the hefty sum spent on my college education. Just a simple ritual of our home. Crusty, warm and delightfully moist inside bread. And let it be known it was not always so. Dad’s bread used to involve things like beer and experimental flours. My sister and I intuited after several faltering social encounters that other kids most likely did not want to share our packed lunches. What can I say? I too harbor fond feelings for the soft mush of Bunny slices pushed against my upper palate with peanut butter.
But those kids never got the whole experience. And it is about the whole experience. The smells, the handling, the waiting, the sharing. I bake my bread for Carla and drive it right over. I knew she would be a good customer when she first bent her head right down into my basket, inhaling some stray flour on the way.
My boyfriend fantasizes freely with me as we break bread for our lunch. Where too next? The offices for Goretex just down the street? There must be a willing crowd there. Maybe I can make a bread baking pot out of two casserole dishes, one atop the other. It’s all a question of streamlining several steps, labeling baggies beforehand. More bread baked all at once, more steps done the previous evening.
When we hear ourselves stray aways down this business minded path, one or the other will pause, invariably declaring how darn good the last bite is. Then it’s off to the bread varieties. Did she want it more salty? Sweet? Crafted for sandwich making or tearing and dipping? We could practically live off our discussions’ enthusiasm.
I love my customer. For first baby steps of bread baking and selling, Carla sure knows how to please me.
Related Posts:
Recent Comments