An Open Letter to Bakers
I think apologies to you every morning when I take loaves of wheat bread out of the oven, cool them on big metal racks, and glance over every so often to see if they’ve gone missing. When that happens, there is more cash in the register. I smile sadly when the bread has disappeared and imagine it sculpted into sandwiches while I pipe filling into another tray of cream puffs and hope they will sell.
In-store business has decreased. I know traffic in your shops has likely done the same, leaving lonely trays of cookies, donuts, and elegant cream puffs with shiny chocolate-glazed tops. I have changed the pace of production and hope you have done likewise, turning out more country loaves and flatbreads and sandwich buns than cupcakes or chocolate brownies with mint frosting. Like many of you, I’ve devoted my life to the heat of ovens and the comforting whirr of stand mixers. I got one wish; it had to be damn good but not put me out of a job.
Rather, put us out of jobs.
Understand that I considered several factors when I wished for seven billion magic lunch sacks to end world hunger, so everyone on the planet could reach in for a personalized and culturally-appropriate breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snack. Understand my wish was detailed and fifteen minutes long since I had to add clauses, fifty-eight of them in total, as I pondered all the ways my innocent wish could fuck up the world and our business.
The lunch sacks had to incorporate locally-sourced meat and produce and starches when available and appropriate, pay a fair market value to farmers and bakers and other food producers, and the food had to be nourishing and nutritionally balanced to make sure there wasn’t a spike in heart disease, diabetes, and certain kinds of cancers (Clauses 10-12). The sacks had to account for obesity epidemics, widespread poverty, food allergies, and intolerances, yet not devastate the culinary economy, restaurant industry, and souls of those like us who make food out of love (Clause 13, Part A; 18 Part, B). At the same time, the sacks had to make sure working parents and other caretakers could put a meal on the table and not devalue the communal aspect of sharing food and passing down recipes to loved ones (Clause 23, Parts B-F).
I almost wished for a lawyer to help me draw up guidelines when the genie gave me a long stare ten minutes into my soliloquy. Still, it was my wish, so I kept going and finished with a quick “And this wish to end world hunger can’t screw up humanity in any way that is foreseen or unforeseen by me at this time.” I had all of us and our livelihoods in mind, but I couldn’t find a way to work cream puffs or baklava or pecan pie into the moral equation.
You may hate me for various reasons, so I’ve kept my connection to the lunch sacks a secret (Clause 30), and I’ve kept my job at the bakery making bread and donuts and pies. The lunch sacks incorporate prepared foods. Our bread and buns disappear, and our registers aren’t empty, so I assume others who work in restaurants and markets and butcher shops experience the same wordless transactions. The snag I didn’t anticipate was the packaged food industry—there’s a glut of canned soups and frozen dinners—and the slowdown in traffic around fast-food restaurants has left workers bored and standing beside the fryers. They will not listen to my cries for improving cholesterol levels. You don’t have to, either, but know that I’m also a victim of my success and the ethical problem I can’t wish away.
My grandma had the same dilemma, nourishing my cousins and me with apple cake and strawberries with sweetened cream, then lamenting how we don’t eat more cauliflower. I’m sure you and I share a passion for watching other people eat what we made, feeding on the vicarious joy of their indulgence. Everyone deserves treats in moderation. Humans are bad at moderation.
I hope you’ve found your own ways to make peace with the situation. I’ve tempered my love of chocolate with the earthy joy of wheat bread, deflating the dough with a gentle fist and shaping neat loaves, scoring them across the top and basking in the warm scent of yeast, which is its own kind of magic. The genie says everything is fine, the world is wrapped in a precious and surprised peace, amazed and unamazed at the sacks, but I made sure there would be no lawsuits (Clause 36, Part E), talk of conspiracy theories (Clause 45, Part B), or scuffles over trying to acquire more than one sack (Clause 49).
I make another batch of blessed buttercream, wishing to wash away my guilt since I know you’d be angry with me, but I hope if you open your sack for lunch, there will be something delightful. I wish this for all us impulsive customers who will decide to indulge in that cream puff, brownie, piece of baklava, or whatever their sweet heart desires.
Teresa Milbrodt has published three short story collections: Instances of Head-Switching, Bearded Women: Stories, and Work Opportunities. She has also published a novel, The Patron Saint of Unattractive People, and a flash fiction collection, Larissa Takes Flight: Stories. She is addicted to coffee, long walks with her MP3 player, and writes the occasional haiku. Read more of her work at: http://teresamilbrodt.com/homepage/