I picked myself back up from the paved, gravel embedded pathway yesterday morning after an unpleasant encounter with Gravity. Ah, my good friend, Gravity. Damning my old pal as I went down, I managed to protect my face, landing on my now pebble-indented forearm and square on the knuckle of my left-hand pinkie finger. If you take a moment and examine your own pinkie, I imagine, if everything is in order, that there is only a delicate, thin layer of skin there, allowing your mobile little finger to happily bob, grasp and swear.
This once overlooked bit of skin had completely vanished from my hand at the climax of the fall and probably joined the other bits of matter hiding among the jagged stones.
I woke up (begrudgingly) that very same day with a temperature of 101 (much like the Dalmatians). So, with head, hand and heart burning, I gathered my splayed belongings, including, but not limited to, my baker’s scale, knife roll, purse, binder and toque, and moved toward Bakeshop #2.
(I must admit at this point that took a small comfort and yes, joy, in the conflicted eyes of tourists, concernedly debating whether to rush to my assistance, or save me from shame and pretend that the calamitous fall had gone unnoticed. My own discomforts enjoyed watching the uneasiness I’d caused in others, despite how momentary or mundane.)
Once I’d applied the bandage and rubber-glove, abiding all ServeSafe sanitation requirements, I went into motion. The bakery flowed like a dance. Mixers started spinning, ovens beeped, egg whites foamed, flour sifted, emulsions stabilized, proteins coagulated and time moved at an exhilarating pace, forcing the aches out and hurdling them into the cosmos (or at least into a corner for the time-being).
This is one of the many beauties of a bakeshop, along with the act of creating, people working together, and other sweet things. That day, I made a delicious cake. Ate it too.