A bit ago, someone asked me to write down a day in my life for a project. What started off as a shortlist of bullet points, quickly grew into an amusing account of a particularly colorful day. It’s too long to post all at once, and since we get around to blogging about once every six months, I figured I’d save part two for another day. So, here is the first half of a questionably single, possibly unhinged, 27 year old small business owner that spends the majority of her time covered in flour.
This morning started like any other morning, or rather, like mornings have been beginning recently. My alarm goes off just a few hours after I set it, and when I look at my phone, I have about five text messages from ex boyfriends. They’ve just started popping up a lot lately, despite the whole “please never talk to me again” talk they got a year ago. This particular string of messages is from a former “gentleman” acquaintance in which over a year ago I went on three dates with, made a questionable drunk decision, and now he feels that it is appropriate to text me about the quality of my hind end. I received these messages around 4am, so I’m sure you can imagine their eloquence.
Anyway, it’s damn early in the morning and I have to get my quality hind end to the gym because I own a bakery and I’d prefer to fit into my clothes and to be able to lift 50lb bags of flour without throwing my back out. I’m trying to build a corporation here, thanks, and I need to be able to run fast in heels because someone has to chase the money it takes to get there.
About a six months ago, I started doing crossfit. I needed an outlet for my rage and competitive instincts. There was a time period where I would compulsively send Leslie links to other bakeries that were doing something even remotely similar to our concept. She would get these emails at 2 in the morning, in all caps that basically implied that THIS IS THE WORST THING EVER HOW DID WE NOT KNOW ABOUT THIS???? She pretty much stopped responding. I eventually stopped sending those emails once I realized I had literally stalked every single “alcohol infused” “boozy” “tipsy” “drunken” “wasted” and “intoxicating” cupcake that exists in this world. In case you were wondering, no one does it like us, 68 reviews on Yelp! can’t be wrong!
So that’s why I do crossfit, to save Leslie’s and my sanity. I get to lift heavy things and drop them in a dramatic fashion, grunt, sweat, and talk about something other than cupcakes. I can also do many pull ups in a row, so I am fully prepared to kick some ass if someone tries to rob the bakery.
I usually power shower at crossfit and then power CitiBike down to the bakery. I recently ditched my MetroCard privileges for a CitiBike, in which I don the world’s coolest helmet and lug a 45lb bike down Manhattan’s streets for $95 a year. Yes, my life is routinely at stake. Yes, this morning I got followed for 10 blocks by a sketchy guy on a motorcycle. He rode right next to me and stared at me every time we hit a red light. When the light turned and I expected him to go on ahead, he would just putt putt right next to me until the next light. I finally just looked at him and screamed, “WHAT?” That scared him away. Another successful male encounter.
I need to find Snaps. Snaps are a little square pretzel made only by Snyder’s of Hanover. We use them in our most popular cupcake, the Pretzels & Beer, and there’s simply no other alternative. Over the course of a year, we believe that Prohibition Bakery has single handedly wiped out the Snap supply of NYC grocery stores and bodegas. We clear out the store every time we see them, because they’re not available for cheap online. They’re the one product that is cheaper at D’agostino’s than it is on amazon.com. Except all three D’agostinos on the way to work are out of stock. The Duane Reades only carry Butter Snaps. Butter Snaps taste like fake movie popcorn and are not good in a cupcake. The bodegas leave me out of luck too.
Pause Cafe, our favorite caffeinated neighbor, is in sight. It will be the highlight of my morning. I need a giant coffee and a hug from Tim. I need to hear about Tim’s rendezvous from the night before. There is always a story. He makes me chuckle. And ohmygod ohmygod, there’s a little bulldog puppy outside the cafe. Let me bury my face in him.
Well holy crap, it’s time to open the bakery. My intern is late, as usual. I’ve accepted the fact that she just shows up around noon. I have about 100 cupcakes on hand that were baked overnight, which should leave me time to leisurely bake throughout the morning. I get the early orders out to the delivery guys, and then the phone starts ringing. People placing orders. People changing orders. People asking for the millionth time, “do you make regular sized cupcakes?” No, no we don’t.
Meanwhile, someone just walked in and bought 5 dozen cupcakes and I’ve got three orders going out in the afternoon, and a huge event tomorrow. Luckily the intern shows up, and I get her to work. I’m still fielding phone calls and emails just as the exterminator shows up. He’s here for his bi monthly routine inspection. We’re not having any problems, but it’s something all food establishments in NYC have to do to keep the DOH happy. Everything is perfect, as expected, but he likes to stay and chat a while. I learn that he has a house in upstate NY and likes to wax all the hair off his body. The more you know, ding ding dong!
It’s hot. The shitty air conditioner can’t compete with the oven spewing out 350 degree air for four hours. The thermometer is registering 96 degrees in the bakery. I’ve strapped some ice packs to my torso which helps significantly. I have the intern putting together a large batch of car bombs and she’s using the Big Boy mixer for the first time. It’s bigger and more powerful, made to handle commercial volume as opposed to the little 5 quart Kitchen Aids. She’s doing well, no major issues. I turn around and then hear a WHOOOOSH and a squeal. I really don’t want to know.
Just then, my produce and dairy guys show up with 10lbs of sour cream, 10lbs of yogurt, 30lbs of butter, a case of eggs, a 50lbs of flour, 50lbs of sugar, 50lbs of confectioners sugar, and a case of lemons. I turn around to see the intern covered in chocolate cake batter. There’s batter on the walls, on the ceiling, on the floor. It’s a cake massacre. I shake my head and go to my delivery guys, who have delivered the wrong kind of yogurt and 50 lemons, instead of 5. The phone starts ringing again. Leslie will be here soon….
…stay tuned for Part II. In the meantime, here’s the batter explosion: