Page 12 of Baking With A Ghost

My laugh is sincere and from the bottom of my gut.

"I was blessed with a fast metabolism. By all rights I should be gaining weight, I sample everything. I'm sure it will catch up to me someday."

"Even if it does, you're perfect as you are. Now what have you got for me today?"

I gather her a still warm, white loaf, and slide it in a paper bag.

"Would you like to taste something I'm experimenting with? It might be horrible, but I think it's time to start getting another person’s opinion on it."

Her face lights up. "Oh, yes please! What are you trying to perfect?"

"When I was a kid, this lady used to babysit me and she would bake bread when she came over. Or cookies or cakes or other things. She used to let me help all the time. It's what really got me into baking."

"Then this experiment is something she used to make?"

A young couple enters the store and I excuse myself to serve them. They purchase a dozen of the cinnamon rolls for a brunch they plan to host tomorrow and three loaves of bread, practically clearing me out, since I planned to be closed early today and didn't add a whole lot to the shelves. Once they leave, I return to Mary and offer her a coffee.

"No, thank you dear, keep telling me about your experiment."

"Right, so this is a bread I'm testing and I'm trying to make it taste like my memory. It sounds stupid, I know, but let me explain. Because she inspired me to bake, there were a few things that she liked and always used in her recipes. I was trying to combine them all, as well as a unique ingredient to me that would taste good and trigger that nostalgic feeling. Have you ever tried a food and then every time you eat it after, the taste brings you back to a place in time you loved?" I chuckle. "Please tell me you know what I'm trying to say?"

She laughs. "I do. Every time I have lobster bisque I remember a date my husband and I went on as newlyweds. We had splurged and ordered the lobster bisque, which I'd never tasted before. Every time I have it now, it takes me back to that place with him and makes me happy. Even if my bisque doesn't taste as good as that one, I imagine us back in that little bistro."

Mary smiles as she tells the story and I know she's the perfect person to taste test. I rush into the kitchen, slice a piece of my creation, and bring it to the front on a paper plate. Using a plastic knife, I cut it in half and hand her half on the plate.

"You're the first taster. Be honest, I can take the criticism."

As I chew my own sample, the anise is barely there, but it's enough to excite me that I'm on to something. I watch Mary's face as she takes her time chewing.

"It's not awful, John. The texture is great and it smells lovely, but there's something not quite right with the flavours. It's like it doesn't know if it should be sweet or savoury bread."

I jolt. "Yes! That's what I want. Because sometimes it would be this sweet egg type bread and other times she'd make this bread that was like stuffing in a loaf and I’ve wondered if I could have both in one. It's not as easy as I hoped it would be."

She chews another bite slowly, taking the time to discover all the tastes.

"I think you're on the right track then."

"I sure hope so. Thank you for trying it. I was ready to give up, but maybe just not yet."

Mary stays for a bit longer and we talk about her bed and breakfast and my ideas to cut back my hours. She surprises me, saying that she even takes time off every year and closes the bed and breakfast for one full week and two long weekends. If Mary can do it on her own, surely I can, too.

A few more customers trickle in before I flick off my open sign for the day. As I'm cleaning up and passing the whiteboard, I pause.

Placing the white board on the front counter with the markers nearby, I wipe it clean before heading up to my loft for the rest of the day.

John

The Ghost Whisperer

ThepersistentmeowofSnowball stirs me from my sleep. There is no better alarm clock than a cat who feels they've waited too long to be fed.

Too bad I didn't want an alarm clock today.

I shuffle to the bathroom, but pull up short when the time on the microwave clock glares at me. It's 11 A.M. My internal clock gets me up at 4 A.M. for work. Sleeping in means a 6 A.M. wake up, maybe 7 A.M. tops. But 11 A.M.?

"I obviously needed the sleep, but this is ridiculous."

Snowball agrees with another loud meow as I scoop food into her bowl. I add an extra spoonful to apologize for being late and hope it's enough to appease her and stop with the cat feeding guilt.

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