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The Secret Life of Lisa Bakerling
Lisa cracked the egg against the side of the bowl,
sprinkled in the flour,
and began stirring rapidly with her big wooden spoon.
The different whites and shades of browns swirled with the yellow goo of the egg.
Constant hums from the mixers at all stations of the kitchen
and oven timers beeping left and right
filled the room.
She could even hear the “ding” from the entrance door as customers hurried in.
Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead, as the ovens quickly toasted the whole room- the hectic chaos of fulfilling orders was almost unbearable.
Her fingers caressed the ingredients as she kneaded the dough.
Pounding all her troubles into the soon-to-be gourmet treat.
Lisa Bakerling hopped into her eye-catching, pastel blue and pink delivery truck.
It was good for business, but she kind of wished she could afford a nicer car.
She passed neighboring houses,
bright with festive colors and decorations.
Oranges, yellows, reds of all shades seemed to fill her vision.
This fall afternoon produced beautiful scenery as she witnessed the leaves
slowly drift to the ground.
This would be a busy week for her at the shop.
Only four days until Thanksgiving she thought as she turned on the radio,
taking a deep breath,
trying to calm herself.
She stopped at a red light and opened the food magazine, left on the passengers seat.
She needed ideas.
Some grocery store coupons fell to the floor as she opened the magazine,
Reminding her of the visit she must make as soon as possible.
Lisa finally pulled into her driveway.
No decorations on the bare red bricks of this house.
The season was getting away from her, no time to decorate.
She opened the front door, threw her purse down,
and ran to the treadmill.
She stripped of her white, flour covered, baker’s uniform
and started her intense workout-
the workout she knew she didn’t need.
She herself has not tasted a pastry in twenty-five years-
since the death of her sister who was food poisoned by one of Lisa’s handmade pastries.
The guilt remains deep inside of her.
She approached the empty refrigerator, in her empty kitchen.
She would start baking her orders to prepare for the next day of work.
She aggressively kneaded the dough,
transferring all her guilt to the consumer of the treat.
Then their Thanksgiving indulgences really would be a