On the next episode, digital ghosts.

My mother has a round face. She was blessed with a very straight and sharp nose. The kind that’s rare in africans. Now that I think about it, she looks like an owl, and behaves very much like one too. The brutality with which owls hunt is often forgotten. Her maiden name means shark in our native language. She is less like a shark but I would understand if someone drew the comparison. She has very dark and smooth skin, she has lovely teeth, long strong nails. A mole, the classic beauty mark, in the classic spot.

My mother is very beautiful.

I miss her terribly. I imagine her showing up at my bakery, I run to her, fall into her arms. I weep.

I want her to hold me and tell me it’s all okay, that she missed me too. That she doesn’t hate me for the lifestyle bestowed upon me, or that I…chose? But she would.

I go to the bathroom at work, I sit, I let tears fall.

Not crying per se, it’s a very matter of fact ordeal.

They just needed to come out, and refused to be dammed.

I head back out.

“Would you like me to make the yeast donut dough as well?”

I’m going to be *in-credible* at work today.


Tart dough for the yuzu flavor I’m experimenting with

Customers will eat them gleefully, just like they did the cake I came up with.

I’ll be called out of the kitchen, I’ll make some shit up about flavor dissonance and balancing extremes being the core of my cooking philosophy.

They’ll ooh and ahh, but they won’t know that the dough was abandoned in the cooler for 3 days. That it was too cold for the sheeter, and broke apart when the time came. That I spent a long time grabbing the broken pieces and forcing them back together. That a huge chunk of it was lost. That it was folded upon itself over and over and over again. That it was excruciating.

But why do I expect them to?

All they came for was some sweet treats.

Their only responsibility was to enjoy the thing out in front of them.

It’s time for my medicine.

no one is coming to save me.