Or possibly a spatula.

It took almost a year, but I finally adjusted my internal clock so that waking up at 3:30 in the morning isn’t quite as painful as it used to be.  The routine before I leave the house is the same every day, and I execute it in near silence so as not to disturb any of the still-sleeping family; the dog doesn’t even do more than twitch or sigh anymore when I tiptoe past her into the kitchen.  I slip on my clothes, brush my teeth in the bathroom, splash some water on my face, write my morning note to the kids, grab my bag and keys and am out the door in less than 15 minutes.  Sometimes 10.

It takes me about five minutes to get to the store, and I’m still creeped out by the darkness of the alley where I park, but I also am still thrilled by being the person who turns on the lights when I unlock the door and go inside. 

It was a dream for many years to have a bakery, right there on the main street of this little town, two blocks down from the elementary school.  When I finally got the nerve to give it a go, let alone the funding and support, I had been planning on treats – cookies, cakes, sweet things, and kids stopping by on the way home from school in the afternoons.  I hadn’t anticipated the demand for breads and rolls from the restaurants in town, and I have struggled to find the right balance here in this small business of mine.  I am not, by nature, a businessperson.  I just like to bake and to feed people things that please them. 

I fire up the coffeemaker and pull apart a  cinnamon roll leftover from yesterday.  Then I start, so that by the time the sun comes up, the store and air outside it is warm with the smells of flour and yeast and sugar and butter, and I am well on my way to having cases full of things to feed people that please them. Which pleases me.  So we all win, don’t we?