The Tangled Branch Discussion Forums

I've been baking bread at home this last week, getting back into it for health reasons, but I'm enjoying it anyway, and it's triggered so many memories.  It reminded me that years ago I wrote a poem about working as a baker.

Some of you will have seen it before, and some not.  One of those 'stream of consciousness' things, stepping through a twelve hour shift.

Sigh, and breathe in the loaves.

Sigh and breathe in the loaves,
it only lasts for a few minutes.
A few precious minutes at the start of each shift
when the smell everyone 'oohs' and 'ahs' about
floods nostrils still fresh from outside air.

Then the Baker's nose takes over as you change.
From Biker to Baker is only one letter,
but the worlds are far apart, so far apart.
Changing waterproofs for an open shirt and apron, 
and helmet for a hairnet, if the public are about.

Your nose picks up clues as you check the order sheet.
Is the water pot in the prover running dry?
Can you smell warm oil?  Is the fryer turned on?
Are there any scary gas leaks?
Is the part-time bouncy Redhead in today?

Working out mixes and numbers subconsciously,
heaving two sacks of flour into the mixer 
as the buckets of water fill under the taps.
Breaking out a new block of yeast, brown at the edges
and starting to smell.  Make note to bollock supplier.

Crumble yeast into water, add handful of sugar
and whisk with a real man-sized whisk. 
More buckets filling as you whisk.
Weigh salt and lard, flip them into the mixer,
hit the switch and tip the water.

Weigh the next two mixes as the arms rise and fall,
mixing the ingredients and kneading with the power
of ten sturdy horses.  Not a place to put your hand!
Dancing the steps of the Baker's Ballet,
weights and effort looking easy, not a motion wasted.

Three on the go so it's time for the kettle,
the next man in makes the tea.  Arriving on time
as you heave the first lumps of dough onto the table.
Check the ovens, you heard them click in on the timer
and saw the lights dim briefly, but always check.

Tea's up and start of shift grunts are exchanged, 
real talk comes later whilst cutting and weighing, 
the more mechanical actions than doughmaking.
Gentle waft of hand-rolled tobacco and perfume, 
Ah, Caroline's in.  That'll make the time go faster.

And so the hours pass, pulling, dragging, tipping,
cutting, moulding, loading, unloading.  
Sod the union rules about tea breaks and breakfast,
this is 'Job and Finish'.  If we took the breaks they 
say we need we'd be here all soddin' day.

Teasing with Caroline and the other shop girls, 
backchat with customers, helping the blind lady
find a brown loaf amongst the same shaped white.
Hear the ovens click off on the timer, but check.
End of the month - so check the oil tank outside.

Peeling the last loaves from the oven, the long
wooden 'shovel' rasping in and out, cursing the  
last irritating tin which spins, and tips, and knocks,
but just won't come out from twenty feet away
in the scorching back of the three deck oven.

Knock 'em out and tray 'em up, wooden trays
don't sweat like plastic.  Real bread lasts longer.
Twenty four loaves to a tray, held high on one hand,
doing the hip swaying dance as you avoid sharp corners
en route to the shop.  "Very sexy!" purrs Caroline.

Stack the shelves, look around, everything ready
for twelve hours hence.  Check the timers, again!
Refill the prover pots, guess the weight of gas
in the cylinders feeding the doughnut fryer.  Enough.
Line up stuff for tomorrow as an aide memoire.

Hang up apron, stick head under tap and wash
the day's dust and sweat away.  Get changed.
Check timers again and go up to the shop,
take a final look at shelves and see what's selling.
Mental note to make extra scones tomorrow.

Absolutely shattered, dead on my feet, 
but unwilling to go home just yet.
Tease Caroline, with hair like a rusty Brillo pad
glittering in the glow of the 'blue light' fly killer.
Maybe a hug, maybe not, she's a moody lass.

Back outside, helmet on, there's that smell again.
Unnoticed for the past twelve hours but fresh
on the outside air, then the sharp tang of petrol
closes the shift as I tickle the carb,
kickstart the beast, and return to my other world.

Gyppo

Gyppo wrote: ↑

Wed Feb 17, 2021 4:06 pm

From Biker to Baker is only one letter,
but the worlds are far apart, so far apart.

Make note to bollock supplier.

Tea's up and start of shift grunts are exchanged, 

Good one G. As you say different worlds, smells, though there's the mechanical links. You really get across what it was like. Some of it reminds me of the time I worked in Burton's biscuit factory, wore the 'hygiene' uniform there, but witnessed some folk not washing their hands in the men's. Didn't buy their biscuits for years after!

Cheers

Phil

Ay, there's something in the air in bakeries that makes people who work there fat just from breathing, I swear. Brought back some memories, this one,with the biker connection. I remember riding 35km at 3.30am every morning in single digit Celsius to this bakery where I had a temporary job as a driver. I didn't have proper riding gear and used to stand next to the ovens for about 10 minutes just to thaw out. Nice one, Gyppo.  

Hi Gyppo,

Another work poem, also dance performance, also sensory overload piece. I remember you once wrote a response to a poem I once posted about making roux. This one is as fast-paced and fun to read.

Indar thanks for bumping this. I missed commenting on it first time through. Good story, love it G.

In college one of my friends took a job in a fast food kitchen. Within a couple of weeks he made fun of co-workers who couldn't keep moving at a rapid pace all through their shift. Within 6-7 months he was the manager of teh place. In 10 years he owned 3 restaurants. At 25 years, semi-retired at 48, he worked perhaps 6 months a year, doing contract jobs for foreign hotels -- setting up their kitchens, menus, and hiring & training their staff. Something to be said for keeping moving.

Cheers, Folks.

Indar, it was one of the shop girls who called it the Baker's Dance.  Up until then I'd never thought of it that way.  A pattern, yes, maybe even a ritual, but not a dance.

After a while your own body clock normally provides all the cues you need.  You know exactly how long it takes a four gallon bucket to fill - unattended - and that gives you long enough to get something else half done.  Then you switch buckets, finish that second thing, and on the way back to start a third bucket you take a block of yeast from the fridge.  And so it goes.

On the days when your mind isn't quite switched on everything becomes disjointed and clumsy.  Suddenly it becomes 'work'.

On the good days, like an air traffic controller you can 'knit a hole in the pattern' so there's a gap for a brief sit-down tea break and a bacon sarnie, perched on the wall of flour sacks.  That's the time when I sometimes scribbled a few lines on a sheet of paper torn from a flour bag

Sensory overload?  Looking back it was, but at the time it was just the environment I knew and where I felt at home.

Tracy, you don't realise how much you do until you've not done it for while.   Then you wonder how you managed.

Making just one or two loaves at a time at home seemed really weird to start with, but after a couple of weeks it's already settling into a mini-ritual I can slot in between other stuff in my life.  (And the memories it brings back are priceless.)

Gyppo

Gyppo, really enjoyed this. Lots of things to see and smell and feel! You're from the UK and you kicked started your bike so I'm thinking it was a Triumph or a BSA? Maybe a Norton or a Matchless? Mine was a Royal Enfield, the 750 Interceptor. Baker to Biker. Thanks for posting this!

QWERTY:  BSA Road Rocket, 650 twin.  High comp pistons etc.  Averaged 50,000 miles a year for about eight years.  Not bad for an 'unreliable' old Brit   A bike for riding, not polishing.  Had a light box sidecar on there for about half the time, until I broke the sidecar chassis through over-enthusiastic 'charioteering'.  (Snapped a two inch diameter tube.)  Rode it solo to work the next day.

Gyppo