I can see sunlight streaming in
through the windows. Flour hangs in the
air, suspended, permanently. I can hear
the old screen door bang shut, the humidity is a persistent cause for haste as
bread and donuts rise without the need of a proofer. I can feel the heat on the
back of my neck and arms as flour sticks to my skin, I wonder if my lungs have
turned to a doughy mass as I count the years in my mind of breathing in the
flour that is suspended in the air.
Eight dozen cookies and one dozen Kringles from scratch in about three
hours time after a day of school was my typical order of business in high
school. The oven was the size of a room
and had a carousel that squeaked around, and we worked our magic on a butcher block table that had to of been at least 100 years old.
On weekends when I worked the front of the store I would arrive around
1:30 am with my mom. We’d stroll in
through the back, my mom and uncle would quickly pick up their conversation and
I would move slowly through stocking the front of the store with donuts,
Kringles, muffins, bagels, and cookies.
There was always coffee and every once in a while officer Callaghan
would stop in through the back door for a visit. I can hear my mom and uncle laughing about
something. Orders need to be packed for
deliveries that will start around 4:00am and go through the mid morning to
different restaurants, gas stations, and specialty shops. Buns need to be sliced, sticky buns need to
be flipped out of their pan. The radio
was always on and I enjoyed the company of my family and especially my
cousins. Some mornings there would be a
line of people reaching out the door by 5:15 am, and I always would wonder,
“Why are you people awake and wanting baked goods?”. I got
my start at around age 13 scrubbing floors and dishes but moved up to baking
and deliveries very quickly. At age 15
in drivers Ed I remember thinking, I’ve known how to drive for over a year, why
do I need to take this class. I’m sure
the same can be said for kids raised on farms.
I remember
complaining and thinking how unfair it was while other teenagers were able to
sleep in until noon on the weekends and enjoy their late nights with friends I
was stuck in a hot bakery and constantly smelled like flour…. A scent I now
miss. I miss it all. I miss seeing my
uncle and cousins every single day, and coming up with the ultimate sandwiches
of our own creations in the oven when all the actual work was done, even though
it was never done. I miss the yellow lab
that would show up for a Dinner roll and then hang out until the owner inevitably
would come strolling in, sometimes an hour or so later saying “Is he here?”,
“Sure is, right over there.” I’m so
grateful for those years as I look back on them. They also helped to instill a work ethic in
me that is as solid as my faith in God.
People talk about “Midwest work ethic” because it’s real; I’ve seen it
first hand through my uncle Paul. He
labored that Bakery for years, and he enjoyed it, but it took a serious toll on
him.
Today I
pulled out my mixer and put aprons on the kids and we are baking bread, from
scratch, something I forget not everyone knows how to do, but I do, and I’m
proud of that. I will continue to teach
my kids how to bake as the years unfold, and I pray that they learn to love it
as much as I do. Who knows, maybe I can
even help them find their first jobs at a local bakery? They would probably resent me for it at
first, but maybe someday they too would have a cloud of flour filled memories
come drifting back to them, bringing visions of their youth and time spent with
me, or learning first hand what Midwest work ethic is all about.
