The Night Time is the Right Time

I'm a zombie.

A zombie who bakes.

A quick run-down of every shift, shall we?

8pm: Arrive.

8-2am: Fight the goddamn pastry sheeter, laminating dough with butter. (Danish dough first, then croissant dough.)

2am-4am: Cut, fill and shape pastry/croissants, place in proofing box, proof.

4am-OHCHRISTIT'SALMOST6: Fill, bake, glaze and ice pastry, cool, wrap for delivery. Load my tiny car to the brim, go peeling out off to the cafe.

6:15-6:30am: Drive to cafe, swear at totes of pastry cascading around the back of my car. Haul pastry totes into cafe while morning girls watch.

7am: Go home, remove clothing, trailing Pig Pen like cloud of flour all the way to the shower.

7-7:30am: Stand in shower and make paste with all the flour on my body. Scrub, begin to feel the physical exertion of the evening.

7:30am-till some asshole calls: Sleep.

Then I dick around for a few hours, and nap till about 7pm.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Friday-Monday, people! I am SORE. My body no likey the lifty of the heavy.

I am totally panicked about having to do all this alone. I am not ready. I admitted as much to my boss last night, and he said, "It's ok. I'll train you until you're ready. I can tell you're the right person for this job."

It made me feel good, until the back pain started. (Leaning over a table rolling croissants=back evil.)

I'm off to taste wedding cake. (Just what I want to do--more pastry.)