Bakers Touch

Maria

No breaks. No rest.

Survival is the only thing going through Morgan's mind in the sense of going forward. Talking to Rebecca only gets her nowhere, and Morgan is so very tired of going nowhere in her life. Attempting an emotionally mature conversation with Rebecca never yields a reasonable outcome. Who wants to be subjected to verbal gymnastics, vitriol-ridden gaslighting, and blatant ignorance of fault, not the kind of social interaction that Morgan has the energy to ponder on.

The cadence of the kitchen is her metronome of peace. Clanging pots and pans, the scraping of blades across cutting boards. Mandolins sliding, garlics mincing, and mallets mashing, all for the sake of creating edible art on those warm and perfect porcelain plates. THe chimes of utensils against empty dishes as they are caried back through the dish retun with little to no remnants of the subject made her heart smile. Morgan was proud to be a chef in the very place her father began his journey.

The hustling and fussing of execs, sous, and expeditors decrecendos to a soft murmur as the night draws to a close. She shifts from the main line, to the dish pit, and digs deep into the waters. Something about the performance of washing rinsing and sanitizing made her feel a sense of spiritual wholeness. Clearing the canvases for the next days made her feel like an accomplished artiste besides, an artists tools are important too, theres no painting without the vehicle to move the medium.

The final saucers are placed back into position in the warming rack. She sets the timers for tomorrow and sets the warmer to begin an hour and a half prior to service begining, just as she had been trained to do. With a fulfilling and satisfied shift now behind her, she clocks out and locks up the employee lounge room then takes the back staircase to the basement level.

The music echoes as she makes her way down the concrete steps, her fingers brush the railing while she gallops down the stairs. Shes taken this route so many times she could decend them with her eyes closed. Morgan places her hand on the door and through the window she can see the security booth.

Mr. Garmeddon is deep in focus, his pen tapps his cheek while he ponders on the space for his crossword puzzle. The Monitors in his booth are all live, recording the business centre lott, employee hallways, and the public spaces of the common areas for the tenants that live on the higher floors above. It Must be nice having a penthouse above all these botiques and resturaunts Morgan thought. Her stps hasten as she approached him, wanting not to frighten him with her visit.

"Mr. Garmeddon?" She calls, waiving her hand as she crosses the crosswalk.

"Aww hey! Its the Star Chef!" He responded with his deep and hearty chuckle. "You've finished early tonight?"

"Yes, I did, whats my time?"

"Well now, lets see." He lifts his arm and pulls back his ridged knit sleeve revealing the time on his watch. "Looks like its half an hour to Three, ma'am! Youve beat your time!"

Morgan takes a bow and fires off a firm high-five to Mr.Garmeddons waiting hand.

"Im just doing my best." She smiles "Speaking of which, Someones favorite Item is back on the menu!"

He smirks as he leans backward away from his booth door

"Nah, dont tease me like that Miss Morgan, I know it's not going to come back until next season."

He gruffed as he sat on his booth stool. Hig big blue secutity jacket puffed up with air as he sat down.

"If It's not the Toffe Coffee Creme Cocoa Mousse Cake, I dont want it."

He hagged his finger at a fiesty Morgan who was rolling her eyes at his exadgerratedly fancy droaning,