My first job was in a supermarket deli. Thirty feet away (maybe thirty five, but definitely not thirty six, oh no, no no no) was the bakery. I was 19, and had the metabolism of an atomic bomb. I could eat anything. I often closed the deli, working until ten p.m., and Eric and I (my co-worker, who still owes me $275, but after 34 years I doubt I’ll recoup it) would go outside to dump the garbage, and smoke weed. Our little reward for making your sandwiches and slicing your bologna, thank you. (What in the name of sweet Buddha is “Blood and Tongue”, and why was it only old, old men with baseball caps bearing the names of battleships and aircraft carriers requested it? I digress.)
Sufficiently baked, stoned, loaded, and stupid, we returned the garbage cans to the deli and untied our aprons. This was the end of shift ritual. Untying of the aprons. But the fun was only beginning.
Into the bakery we went.
Cakes, pies, doughnuts (if “enough” is pronounced “enuff”, why don’t we eat “duffnuts?” Subsequent digression.) Stoned, 19, surrounded by sugar, and not a managerial soul in sight. Oh baby jesus lying in a manger, thank you.
Inside the walk in cooler was a large metal bowl, probably big enough to hold at least two soccer balls, and it was usually at least half full of icing. You know the kind. That store bakery icing, with that store icing taste. You’re either a fan of it, or totally repulsed by it. I’ve never met anyone who ever said “Meh, that stuff is okay.” No. It was love-hate.
I loved it. And I gorged on it. Two heaping scoops of it, eaten slowly and decadently, as Eric hovered near the cookies, crunching and giggling. For him, it was hate. Sad. Enjoy your cookies, dude. I’m gonna rot my insides on this thick, gooey concoction of power packed premium poison, disguised as icing.
Swirls of blue, sometimes green and red, and oh holy Lucifer, some nights there was . . . the chocolate icing.
This picture isn’t the chocolate, it’s the blue, with its swirls and whirls and curls, and as I look at it, I’m nineteen again, and my apron is untied.
I’m fairly sure this artist has posted work here before. Regardless, these works are very unique and refreshing. I think the site needs a visual jump-start occasionally.
8 comments
My first job was in a supermarket deli. Thirty feet away (maybe thirty five, but definitely not thirty six, oh no, no no no) was the bakery. I was 19, and had the metabolism of an atomic bomb. I could eat anything. I often closed the deli, working until ten p.m., and Eric and I (my co-worker, who still owes me $275, but after 34 years I doubt I’ll recoup it) would go outside to dump the garbage, and smoke weed. Our little reward for making your sandwiches and slicing your bologna, thank you. (What in the name of sweet Buddha is “Blood and Tongue”, and why was it only old, old men with baseball caps bearing the names of battleships and aircraft carriers requested it? I digress.)
Sufficiently baked, stoned, loaded, and stupid, we returned the garbage cans to the deli and untied our aprons. This was the end of shift ritual. Untying of the aprons. But the fun was only beginning.
Into the bakery we went.
Cakes, pies, doughnuts (if “enough” is pronounced “enuff”, why don’t we eat “duffnuts?” Subsequent digression.) Stoned, 19, surrounded by sugar, and not a managerial soul in sight. Oh baby jesus lying in a manger, thank you.
Inside the walk in cooler was a large metal bowl, probably big enough to hold at least two soccer balls, and it was usually at least half full of icing. You know the kind. That store bakery icing, with that store icing taste. You’re either a fan of it, or totally repulsed by it. I’ve never met anyone who ever said “Meh, that stuff is okay.” No. It was love-hate.
I loved it. And I gorged on it. Two heaping scoops of it, eaten slowly and decadently, as Eric hovered near the cookies, crunching and giggling. For him, it was hate. Sad. Enjoy your cookies, dude. I’m gonna rot my insides on this thick, gooey concoction of power packed premium poison, disguised as icing.
Swirls of blue, sometimes green and red, and oh holy Lucifer, some nights there was . . . the chocolate icing.
This picture isn’t the chocolate, it’s the blue, with its swirls and whirls and curls, and as I look at it, I’m nineteen again, and my apron is untied.
Beautiful work!
You’re a good writer.
🙂
Yes.
Is this picture made by this person? I’m asking you because you seem to know.
agree
I’m fairly sure this artist has posted work here before. Regardless, these works are very unique and refreshing. I think the site needs a visual jump-start occasionally.
And yes.