Pest Control
by
Roopa Raveendran-Menon
Her cupcakes lie in the trash. Butchered and massacred, the creamy bits clinging to fruit peels, pits, crumbled vanilla pods, and egg shells. Trashed for the seventh time.
She spots a set of spherical things stacked in the corner of the kitchen counter. They aren't candy or anything edible. A sign rests next to them. More than the 3 Ps of Patience, Precision, and Passion, Baking also needs a hearty dose of pest control!
A gong tolls. Time to prep for the afternoon tea service! Chef B’s voice crackles in the air. Everyone takes their place. Her station is Macarons. She removes the bowl of measured egg whites from the fridge and whisks the pool of silvery clear liquid. Chef B’s voice claws her from behind. His breath is sour: Your cupcakes are vermin food.
She hears suppressed giggles and guffaws. An acrid taste of rage coats her tongue. She whisks faster and faster until stiff white peaks are formed, and her bone-white fingers feel hot. The warmth spreads to her sunken cheeks. She closes her eyes and thinks of home. Smells of crushed pistachio and cashews fried in ghee sting her nose. In her home kitchen, sticky sweet jaggery pudding is bubbling in an enormous copper-bottomed vessel. She dabs her finger in the hot, syrupy pool, and licks it but it turns to ash. She opens her eyes. She can’t seem to exorcize the white rage from her soul. Patience, Precision, Passion, she chants and grabs the spherical balls, crushes, adds them to a pipe, and squeezes out little coins that she would later bake and rest till the shell is firm.
She whips butter, cream, and sugar, makes some vanilla buttercream frosting, and spreads it on the underside of half the macarons. The service bell rings. She plates the macarons. Chef B’s eyebrows are arched. He grabs one macaron and puts it in his mouth, and chews it. Chef B’s face changes, and his fingers clutch his throat.
She hums a little tune, rips off her Chef’s jacket, and walks to her locker. All she can think of is that sign.
She spots a set of spherical things stacked in the corner of the kitchen counter. They aren't candy or anything edible. A sign rests next to them. More than the 3 Ps of Patience, Precision, and Passion, Baking also needs a hearty dose of pest control!
A gong tolls. Time to prep for the afternoon tea service! Chef B’s voice crackles in the air. Everyone takes their place. Her station is Macarons. She removes the bowl of measured egg whites from the fridge and whisks the pool of silvery clear liquid. Chef B’s voice claws her from behind. His breath is sour: Your cupcakes are vermin food.
She hears suppressed giggles and guffaws. An acrid taste of rage coats her tongue. She whisks faster and faster until stiff white peaks are formed, and her bone-white fingers feel hot. The warmth spreads to her sunken cheeks. She closes her eyes and thinks of home. Smells of crushed pistachio and cashews fried in ghee sting her nose. In her home kitchen, sticky sweet jaggery pudding is bubbling in an enormous copper-bottomed vessel. She dabs her finger in the hot, syrupy pool, and licks it but it turns to ash. She opens her eyes. She can’t seem to exorcize the white rage from her soul. Patience, Precision, Passion, she chants and grabs the spherical balls, crushes, adds them to a pipe, and squeezes out little coins that she would later bake and rest till the shell is firm.
She whips butter, cream, and sugar, makes some vanilla buttercream frosting, and spreads it on the underside of half the macarons. The service bell rings. She plates the macarons. Chef B’s eyebrows are arched. He grabs one macaron and puts it in his mouth, and chews it. Chef B’s face changes, and his fingers clutch his throat.
She hums a little tune, rips off her Chef’s jacket, and walks to her locker. All she can think of is that sign.
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