I am not a bright ray of morning sunshine.

Even after eight hours of sleep unfettered by evening caffeine or smoke-alarm chirping, the first hour is not pretty. Obviously this is the perfect time to introduce knives, boiling water, splattery hot grease, or electric grinding appliances into the mix. It’s not pretty.

Other key fact: My routine demands I adhere to the following mantra: “Out the door at 8:04.” With keys, wallet emptied of all cash (vending machines), fully charged celly, Coffee Mug, ziploc bag full of tea, separate ziplo bac full of ice, fruit, and extra pair of socks. And, most obviously, lunch. I’m “Still Alive at 8:05,” but if I push it much farther… consequences can be profound.

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My bakery is called “Sticky.”

You’ll find this establishment in a transitional neighborhood of a large American City. The location takes advantage of ample foot traffic and a dense, modestly diverse cluster of nearby housing. A well-regarded university is no more than four (but no fewer than two– F*$#ing Hipsters) miles away.  Inside, framed photographs of distressed Italianate architecture dot the exposed-brick walls, and an area behind the display counter painted a bright, earthy blue.

There is plenty of seating- members of the creative class take advantage of the free wi-fi to do Very Important Things on their laptop computers. Grumpy old men from the neighborhood hunch over the large table in the corner and play chess all afternoon, bathed in the lazy sunlight streaming through the ancient bay windows. The dining area smells vaguely of coffee, wheat, and lemon.

And, inside the display cases, the baked goods will stop you cold. Brownies the size of wallets, pitch-black from the too-expensive French cocoa I stubbornly insist upon, much to the chagrin of my accountant. Cupcake frosting colored by a madman and applied by a bomb-diffuser-brain-surgeon-architect who freebases Adderall. Ciabatta that’s still slightly sandy from the floured towel used it to hoist it into the steamy oven. Muffins that look like muffins, replete with tops and perfect blueberry distribution. Chocolate chip cookies that are ever-slightly pale. Cinnamon sticky buns that singe your nose hairs before coating your soul in gently frosted goo.

And exactly one cake.
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So you’d think after four decades I might at least have the basics figured out.  What pocket to keep my keys in, where the umbrella should go, having a consistent wake-up time or remembering not to touch my face after I slice hot peppers -  stuff like that.  For such a creature of routine as I am, it feels simultaneously hilarious and crippling that I can never ease my way into one. Instead, most of the time, I  go through life feeling like my shirt is on inside out and backwards.

Oxford shirt, and, yes. I’ve done that.

Even in the kitchen, that one space in my world where the rules seem clear and I feel safe within a radius of my instincts – I go through weeks when I find myself feeling clumsy and error-prone.  Not that I expect perfection from myself, but, again, I’m at the point where a stir-fry or a roast chicken or a loaf of bread shouldn’t present many technical difficulties.

It’s more like a feeling that certain things I prepare frequently really should taste a LOT better than I’m willing to candidly admit.   And maybe it was time for a couple of tweaks. . And sometimes, luckily, I can even get things right.

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but… I don’t know how to hard-boil an egg.

Don’t get me wrong, I know how to cook eggs.  I can poach one to the precise point that an oozing yolk can tango with a salad’s acidic vinaigrette. I can flip a sunny with little more than telekinesis. I can scramble in a double-boiler, separate fearlessly, and souffle without mercy.   I can even whisk  up a creme anglaise that makes ME want to eat more fruit.  So overall aptitude isn’t the problem.

And, yes, I know how you’re SUPPOSED to hard-boil eggs.   Boil water, egg, peel it after a while, right?  You can tart it up any way you want, but you are still, basically, just boiling an egg.  And I don’t know how to do it.

But this is where it gets kind of pathetic:  I can SOUS VIDE an egg, but cannot satisfactorily boil one.   I can put eggs in boiling water, and I either add salt or not add salt or either poke a hole or not poke a hole, and I can take them out of the boiling water and count how long it takes to dry (they say a hard boiled egg will dry in less than ten seconds) or do the “spin test,”  but I just can never seem to get a decent egg out of the process.

On so many levels, this is just wrong.
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Caramel.  The braising liquid was caramel.  Fatty pork braised in CARMEL.

Nearly all of my get-togethers seem to stem out of an unconscious but important rule. If I am going to braise fatty pork in caramel, certain things need to be in place.  My shirt needs to be tucked in  And, you know,  bed made, clothes off the floor,  toilet paper IN the holder and not just sitting on top of it.

In other words, company.  I feel like if I don’t have friends over, I’ll go Lord of The Flies and basically eat the entire pot with my hands on the kitchen floor with my face painted. Remember: I’m still trying to be a once-a-week vegetarian and things have been stressful and I haven’t made pork in a while and haven’t really slow cooked anything for even longer.  I NEED least this thin veneer of civilization as a hedge against Dark Urges.

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First of all, relax.  This is how rumors get started.  I haven’t gone crazy or thrown away the chicken bones in my freezer or bought a yurt or anything like that.   Remember:   pork products…cold dead fingers.

But from now on, I’m only going to eat meat on Sunday. No more chicken salads for lunch, no more pork shoulder in my weeknight stir-frying, no more bacon because I got yelled at at work,  no more “chorizo break” during my housework binges.   There is just Sunday… when I can anticipate and savor and meticulously plan and flawlessly execute what I am desperately craving.  And I am DAMN sure going to enjoy it.
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