On the plus side, it’s no problem showing up for work before dawn. I can’t wait to get out of this car. At six a.m. I’m brushing my teeth with bottled water and tidying up my hair with a wet comb. By six thirty, I’m rolling into the Busy Bean parking lot.
I’m so early that I have to tap on the kitchen window to let Audrey know that I’m here. She opens the door with, “Morning, sunshine. There’s no coffee yet, but we can fix that soon.”
“I’d be happy to make it,” I offer. Although I haven’t eaten much these past few days, and my stomach is too empty for coffee.
Being broke is the worst. I just need a little bit of luck to come my way before I can stop feeling like a homeless loser.
“Grab an apron,” Audrey says, pointing to the clean ones on a hook. “I’m making biscotti.”
“How can I help?”
“Sliver these almonds?” She tosses me a bag.
“No problem.” I wash my hands and get to work.
We work together for a while in companionable silence. We finish the biscotti and then move on to two kinds of muffins—corn and pear ginger. “The pears are from Zara’s family’s orchard,” she says. “We use local food as often as we can.”
“Is there locally grown flour?”
She shakes her head. “Not often. But we can use local butter and milk, and fruit, obviously. My husband’s family has a big apple orchard, so I make a lot of tarts.”
My stomach rumbles loudly, and Audrey laughs. “Somebody likes apple tarts.”
“Love them,” I say mildly. My poverty is not her problem, and complaining about my hunger doesn’t make me a better job prospect. “I remember the Shipley orchard. They used to hire teenagers in the fall. And there were bonfire parties.”
“We still have those parties. There’s one in a couple weeks. But the youngest Shipleys are out of high school.”
“Cool. Hey, can I ask a favor? My sourdough starter needs feeding, and I didn’t have time this morning. Could I feed it a cup of your flour?”
“Of course! Show me your ways.”
“Awesome. One sec.” I dash out to my car to get the jar, leaving my crusty measuring cup behind. Even if I can’t feed myself very well right now, I’ve still fed my sourdough starter every night and every morning. I’m using a five-pound bag of the cheapest white flour from the store, but I won’t let him die.
“So let’s see how you do this,” Audrey says when I return.
I set the jar down on the counter and screw off the top. “Audrey, I’d like to introduce you to William Butler Yeast.”
She snorts. “You named your starter?”
“Everybody names his starter. What did they teach you in cooking school?”
She watches with a smile while I remove two thirds of the stringy, bubbly batter from the jar. A sourdough starter is just three things: flour, water, and the millions of natural yeasts living in the mixture. Every day you have to remove two thirds of its bulk and then replace it with fresh flour and water, so that the yeasts have enough to eat.
“Don’t you have to weigh it?” Audrey asks. “I thought there was some precision involved.”
“You’re supposed to,” I admit. “But I’ve kept William in this jar for so long that I can just eyeball it now.” The discarded starter goes into a metal mixing bowl that I’ve grabbed off a shelf. Then, into William’s jar, I add a half cup of water and nearly a cup of flour. I stir the sticky mass together with a wooden spoon and close the jar again.
“So that’s how the magic happens?” She lifts the mixing bowl and takes a sniff. “I’m getting… bananas. And a whiff of alcohol.”
“Right, I smell that banana ester, too. And alcohol is a byproduct. I let it go a little too long between feedings.” That’s what living in your car will do for you. “So there’s extra alcohol present. William eats twice a day to stay at peak performance.”
“Can we make something with this?” she asks.
“Sure!” This is just what I need—to put my hands in some dough and make the kitchen smell like fresh bread. When I’m baking in a warm kitchen, that’s when I know everything is okay. “Do you have any yeast, though? If we wanted to do a bread that’s entirely leavened by sourdough, it won’t be ready until evening. When I’m making a strict sourdough, I start it the night before.”
“Probably?” Audrey goes to the refrigerator and roots around. “I have this. I don’t know if it’s your brand.” She hands me a package of Red Star.
“Perfect. Let’s make some pretzels.” I open the yeast and sprinkle about a teaspoon over my sourdough starter. “All we need is flour and water and maybe a dollop of honey or some sugar.”
“Not a problem,” Audrey says. “Let’s see your magic.”
If I had magic, I wouldn’t be broke right now. But did I mention that I’m a natural showman? “Get ready to be dazzled, Audrey. We’re eating well this morning.” I dip the metal scoop into the flour and get started on a batch of pretzels.
Kieran
I unlock the front door of the bakery and step inside. The air already smells like pumpkin muffins and coffee. Shrugging off my coat, I’m just about to call out a greeting when a baritone voice sings out a line from “Royals” by Lorde.
I freeze in place, listening to the next line and the finger-snapping that goes along with it.
“You are way too good at this!” I hear Audrey say with a giggle.
“Sing the high part. We’ll rock it together.”
Roderick. He’s here.
The two of them keep singing, and I have déjà vu. Because once again, I’m standing frozen in place, eavesdropping on Roderick like a creeper. Audrey was right. He is way too good at this. His voice is like a soulful liquid pouring through me, leaving goosebumps behind.
It’s seven o’clock in the morning, but I am vividly awake and wondering how I’m supposed to work elbow to elbow with this guy. He’s back. And I am not ready.
They sing the whole damn song before I snap out of it and hang my jacket on a hook.
“Is that you, Kieran?” Audrey calls.
“Yeah,” I rasp awkwardly. “Morning.”
“I’m covered in cream-cheese frosting!” Audrey calls. “Want a pumpkin muffin? Although you should know there are bagels, and they are spectacular.”
“Good tip,” I mumble as my heart sinks.
If Roderick made spectacular bagels, he’s probably here to stay. This is terrible. Working at the Busy Bean isn’t my life’s goal. I started here to help my cousin’s wife, and to save up for my own place. But it’s comfortable, or at least it used to be. Now I have to work with him? Not possible.
Sure enough, Roderick comes out of the kitchen ten minutes later to work the morning rush with me. “Just tell me if I screw something up,” he says in a chipper voice. “Okay?”
I jerk my chin in a nod, avoiding eye contact. What is he thinking right now? Oh right. Now it’s time to serve coffee with the creep who used to watch me blow guys under the bleachers.