While scooping cookie dough at my new place of work, I realized I have a secret weapon (I will refrain from naming the company’s name because I’m pretty sure it can take my first born away if I do…now and in the future, I will simply refer to it as “Corporate the Giant.”). Although I am beginning to have the feeling that I am no longer a true novice in the baking world, when I mix cookie batter I still always want to eat the batter. This is my weapon. I love the damn cookies. I love them.
I have a theory that because I love them like the Utahans love Jell-O, they will always provide me with some level of excitement, joy, and thus commitment to the job…even with Corporate the Giant. Because ultimately, I don’t mind if I mix cookies for Corporate or with my kitchen-aid on the counter in my home. Either way, I’m making cookies.
When I see the grumbles of my co-workers’ saturate the air of the bakeshop, I see that their rhythm belongs to the time-clock and the cookies have become no more than cogs in the machine. Any passion they might have possessed has become labor…or maybe got eaten by the eighty-quart mixer.
Either way, when I first arrived to Corporate the Giant, it worried me slightly. Perhaps, my Cookie Love was just Puppy Love and bound to dissipate. Perhaps, I was just honeymooning with the cookies… One Grumbler in particular even told me that I would “get over” my enthusiasm, as if I carried influenza.
Specifically scooping the cookies (60 pounds of dough to be exact) has convinced me otherwise and that I might truly be involved in a life-long love affair. Despite the monotony, the time it takes, and potential carpal tunnel, I am overtaken with delight. Simple thoughts (and thoughts that I believe hold power enough to shield me forever from a disparaging outlook) trigger a little internal thrill.
I mostly imagine how pleased my 8-year-old self would be that I get paid to spend time making cookies. Or decorating a cake. Or how cool it is that what I bake has become palatable enough so that not only will people beyond my immediate family dare to eat it, but will also pay for it.
I realize that because this IS my job, all of these things are expected of me, and should therefore be less exciting somehow….
…nevertheless, my internal little kid still thinks it’s wicked cool.