The day begins at The Bay Leaf café, sipping a latte reading “A
Reef in Time” on a sage cushioned windowseat. Already, the skies though crisp and cool are a blue promise.
From there, to Santos’ Organic Market for hunks of
organic milk, white, and dark chocolate, and to Woolworths for vanilla, butter
and eggs. The pizzeria and its denizens have been so good to me; tonight’s my last
shift (of this tenure, anyway). It’s time to make them cookies.
With a stop back home it’s off to the beach with Daphne (my
surfboard), and a beach bag with my towel and book.
The weather is perfect. Byron has lifted its face from the
clouds this week to bid me remember it fondly. The water was warm, the waves
clean and not smashing or sandy, the current wasn’t a drag (hehe get it – a
drag?), and the sunshine was the beating heart of Byron Bay in all it's splendor.
I went back home and baked in a frenzy, tossing together
cookies like I have so many times before, excited to share my amazing American
cookie making skills with these chefs who have fed me so many times, as a
gesture of fond farewell. I didn’t have any of my usual kitchen equipment, but
everything seemed easy enough to makeshift; what defines a mixing bowl is that
something is being mixed in it, and a spoon is a spoon, right? The flat metal
tray appeared to be oven-safe, etc. The dough tasted amazing, and I was running
short of time. I baked the cookies up and wrapped them in wax paper on my
Frisbee and raced down the street, adrenaline pumping. It would be stupid to be
late my last day, cookies or no. So I did what I’ve considered doing many times
when running short on time, and hitchhiked down the main street, being treated
to a soliloquy about artistic flow and jumping out a block from work.
I arrived in a fluster, surprisingly emotional about my last
shift. I offered around the cookies, grabbed an apron and clocked in.
The chef was sweet enough to make a ‘yum’ sound and tell me
they were good.
It’s the first time a man’s ever lied to me to compliment my
baking.
Still grinning from my amazing day, and the adrenaline of
running and hitchhiking to work, I grabbed a cookie.
They were terrible.
Really, really terrible.
A horrible, metallic tang lingered in my mouth even after
the flavor of the cookie had gone. I couldn’t believe it. I was totally
appalled. I’ve never made a bad cookie in my life, and I have made a great many
cookies. What could possibly have gone wrong? I had amazing, high quality
chocolate, butter with an 80% butterfat, eggs I’ve delighted in a million times.
But there was nothing for it, it was a flopped cookie effort.
I expressed my displeasure at this vociferously, and the
chef laughed and agreed. I should have known if anyone could understand that
kitchen failures happen every now and again, it would be a culinary
professional. One of the guys insisted, honestly I think, that he liked them,
and ate a fair few. I made him swear he wouldn’t let anyone else touch them in
exchange for my not throwing them out immediately.
I had a great last shift. It was a quiet night, the moon
rose enormous and yellow, and an incredible street fiddler was set up busking
down the block. My work cycle there came full circle, finishing by washing the
floors and scrubbing the last trays, taking a huge box of leftover pizza home.
I went and sat on the beach and watched the moonlight reflecting on seagulls wings, and listened to the surf and sea before walking home under tropical stars.
Culinary disasters or no, it was a perfect day.
Incidentally, I was going to throw away the remainder of the
cookie dough, but my roommate insisted that he wanted it. He baked it up in a
ceramic pan, and it tasted like triple chocolate cookie, no terrible aftertaste
in sight.
This concludes the lesson about the importance of using a
proper baking pan.
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