heal & zeal
When I was 12 years old I was determined to conquer the world. Of course, by that I mean my little world, full of strawberry lip gloss and forbidden recess activities. Every class break, I and a group of my closest accomplices would run out to the bars on the playground and wait our turn for a chance at tempting fate. A twirling victory or, as it turns out a possible peril, we called the death drop. We would climb up and sit precariously on the cold, thin metal horizontal bar, clasp our nervously clammy hands in front of us, and swing them over our heads with enough momentum to swing ourselves- hands free- backward and underneath the bar. And, for those brave enough to swing with all our might, flip our legs down just in time to land on our feet from six feet in the air. The death drop, and all activities with similar tones of endangerment, was of course sternly prohibited by the school. But we were twelve-year-old girls, full of just enough rebellion and courageously painted pink lips to consider this a dare.
I remember telling myself that today was the day. I climbed up and grasped the bar tightly with both hands, fearfully releasing my fingers one by one. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, felt the bar catch behind my knees and a rush of wind hit my back. The next thing I knew, by sheer grace and luck, I was standing on the ground below. Alive and in one piece. I could not believe it. Feeling like a world class gymnast I raced back up and did it again, over and over. It wasn’t until the fifth attempted display of my forbidden athleticism, however, that I found the peril. Splat, face down, with a mouth full of sand and a freshly broken arm. Worse, a walk to the school nurses office trying to explain how it all happened.
The next day I chose watermelon lip gloss, let my friends sign my cast, and talked about how much I couldn’t wait to do it again. That’s youth. Our ambitions prevail and damage heals quickly.
There are so many days when being in the kitchen of our little bakery makes me feel the same zeal of that twelve-year-old girl. Every week I put out a menu including as many time intensive, hand made breads and pastries as I think I can reliability produce. Then the thrill comes as I try to carry out those plans and dare myself to do more. Just like the death drop, most of the time we land on our feet. But every once in a while, a fallen moment reminds me of the risk. This was that week. A few days ago I hurt my back. I wish I could tell you a daredevil story of bravery and feat, but honestly I have no idea how I did it. In my head I’m still as determined as a twelve-year-old, so we pushed through and baked. Truth be told, after the last bake today, I realized I was more broken that I wanted to accept.
In the spirit and wisdom of age, I’ve decided it best to take a short break and heal. If only because I think it’s the fastest way to take on the next dare. We will be very happy to see you Saturday, March 1st for the next menu zeal.
