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I might get in trouble with this one, but meh. I'll leave that one up to the mods to decide. It's only risque in the vaguest possible sense. Fortunately, I specialise in vaguery!
So as I've said, one of our unspoken duties in the bakery was to provide quick'n'dirty inscriptions on the cakes people bought, if need be. My first exercise in this was a bonafide disaster, if you must know; the writing looked as though I'd tried to do it left handed while being mauled by a puma. Regardless, endless repetition eventually brought about some kind of breakthrough, and eventually I was able to provide a service that resulted in a cake that at the very least looked no worse than it once was.
The younger girls were much less confident in their abilities. No matter where I was, what I was doing, I would inevitably be paged to the bakery to scrawl whatever sentiment the customers wanted, muttering under my breath about how cold my coffee was getting or how my lunch wasn't going to eat itself. (At least, not unless the Boss wasn't around.) I don't mind lending a helping hand, but it got to the point where the girls weren't even trying anymore, and I finally had to put my foot down. Especially after I got a plaintive phone call from S one evening on my day off asking if I could come in to write on a cake for someone. I told them that they would be required to learn how to do at least basic printing themselves, and sent them all home with piping jelly and wax paper to practice on.
As for what people want written on cakes, well, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" and "CONGRATULATIONS" is pretty much the beginning and the end of it, although I did once get to write "I'M DIVORCING YOU, STEVEN, I KNOW ABOUT EDMONTON" on a very lovely black forest cake that I hope took the sting out of it. Unsurprisingly, we did occasionally get jokers over the phone who tried to get one by us by "ordering" a cake a-la Bart Simpson, but these were usually easier to spot.
This is the story about the cake that caused us to change our policy.
The following day found me in the store, but technically "not there". I usually came in on one of my days off to catch up on paperwork and work out schedules that got neglected while our oven was perpetually belching out goods at a steady pace. During this time, you could come to me with questions, but as far as union rules went, I wasn't actually allowed to do much more.
Thus, I had to turn away G, who poked her head into the office and asked in a roundabout way worthy of any timeshare salesman if I could maybe sort of potentially see my way into y'know writing on this cake that had just been ordered. I told her that unless the customer wanted Sanskrit (which I actually had to do once), I was certain she could do it herself. She reluctantly agreed, and I didn't hear anymore on the matter until a few hours later when she reappeared to ask what happened when a customer doesn't pick up a cake they've ordered.
"Aw damn, not again. Seriously? Just, I don't know, put a reduce sticker on it. If someone doesn't buy it by the end of the day, we'll just bring it up here for the night staff to eat." This, along with my lax attitude to death metal being blared over the loudspeakers on the few occasions I came in at midnight to fill a large order, lead to my popularity with the stock nightshift.
"I don't know if anyone is going to want this one. The inscription is a little weird. I think it's for an anniversary or something?"
And, as I discover when I head downstairs to investigate, it sort of is.
On a large white sheetcake, G has written in markedly beautiful cursive script, HAPPY 4:20.
Misinterpreting my stunned silence as disapproval, G hastily says, "He said he was going to pick it up in five minutes, but that was hours ago. Do you think he forgot?"
I stare at her. She looks back at me. Her eyes are wide and earnest. She really has no clue.
It suddenly occurs to me that the fact that I actually know what this cake means probably makes me a deviant even if I don't imbibe myself. I'm honestly surprised she doesn't; what are they teaching you kids in school these days, anyway? Have Harold and Kumar lied to me about your generation? UNTHINKABLE.
"So . . . " I begin, then hesitate, trying to think of the best way to phrase this. It really is such very lovely writing. "You, uh, he didn't say what it was for?"
"No. He just told me what he wanted on it, then asked if we carried pork rinds."
Yeah, I bet.
After some debate, I finally decide we can't just throw it out. These things are expensive. (The cake that had been written on was about fourty dollars.) It's possible the customer has forgotten his order (I'm sure he forgets a lot, after all), but in all likelihood it's just someone's idea of a joke. I put a reduction sticker on it, and carry it to the shelf. If someone gets offended, I'll play ignorant.
The Boss walks by. And slows down as he sees the cake.
He looks at me. I look at him. Waiting.
"So," he says at length, "someone forget their cake?"
"Yeah, guess so." I say nonchalantly. He looks at the writing, and then gives me a curious look; we judge each other. Neither one of us wants to come out and say we know what the writing on the cake stands for.
"Is it for a holiday, do you think?" he asks, casually.
"Dunno. Maybe an American one?" I offer, my eyes all innocent.
"Could be, could be." He strokes his chin thoughtfully. He looks both incredibly amused and uncomfortable. "So, you're just going to . . . put it out and see if someone buys it?"
"Well . . . yeah. That's not a problem, right?"
"Oh, no. No. That's, um, that's fine."
At that exact moment, a tiny old lady totters up to us. She's wider than she is tall, a perfect little apple of a woman with a neat cap of white curls and tiny pince-nez on her button nose. The basket slung over her arm has Metamucil and a box of dog treats in it. She looks at the cake and smiles the way I've seen grandmothers look at babies. "Oh, my. Excuse me, is that for sale?"
I look at the Boss. He's pretending to be absorbed in my bagel display. Bastard.
"Yes. Um. I discounted it because it's got an inscription on it already. If you want, I could try and scrape it off. The cake itself is still fresh."
"Oh no. No, don't worry, sweetheart." She takes the cake from me and settles it carefully in her arms. "The writing is just fine by me."
And she winks at me before she toddles off.
Although the Boss inevitably found this as hysterical as I did, we had to change our policy on cake writing thereafter, requiring the person ordering the cake to actually be there in person and wait for the writing to be done.
Personally, I like to imagine some guy, somewhere, waking up on a couch covered in Doritoes the next day, sitting bolt upright and dislodging an avalanche of crumbs as he says in dismay, "Shit. I forgot my cake!" Although admittedly the visual of someone's grandma celebrating the holidays is pretty entertaining, too.
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. Do something you enjoy with someone you love.
Or just order a cake and celebrate anyway.
So as I've said, one of our unspoken duties in the bakery was to provide quick'n'dirty inscriptions on the cakes people bought, if need be. My first exercise in this was a bonafide disaster, if you must know; the writing looked as though I'd tried to do it left handed while being mauled by a puma. Regardless, endless repetition eventually brought about some kind of breakthrough, and eventually I was able to provide a service that resulted in a cake that at the very least looked no worse than it once was.
The younger girls were much less confident in their abilities. No matter where I was, what I was doing, I would inevitably be paged to the bakery to scrawl whatever sentiment the customers wanted, muttering under my breath about how cold my coffee was getting or how my lunch wasn't going to eat itself. (At least, not unless the Boss wasn't around.) I don't mind lending a helping hand, but it got to the point where the girls weren't even trying anymore, and I finally had to put my foot down. Especially after I got a plaintive phone call from S one evening on my day off asking if I could come in to write on a cake for someone. I told them that they would be required to learn how to do at least basic printing themselves, and sent them all home with piping jelly and wax paper to practice on.
As for what people want written on cakes, well, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" and "CONGRATULATIONS" is pretty much the beginning and the end of it, although I did once get to write "I'M DIVORCING YOU, STEVEN, I KNOW ABOUT EDMONTON" on a very lovely black forest cake that I hope took the sting out of it. Unsurprisingly, we did occasionally get jokers over the phone who tried to get one by us by "ordering" a cake a-la Bart Simpson, but these were usually easier to spot.
This is the story about the cake that caused us to change our policy.
The following day found me in the store, but technically "not there". I usually came in on one of my days off to catch up on paperwork and work out schedules that got neglected while our oven was perpetually belching out goods at a steady pace. During this time, you could come to me with questions, but as far as union rules went, I wasn't actually allowed to do much more.
Thus, I had to turn away G, who poked her head into the office and asked in a roundabout way worthy of any timeshare salesman if I could maybe sort of potentially see my way into y'know writing on this cake that had just been ordered. I told her that unless the customer wanted Sanskrit (which I actually had to do once), I was certain she could do it herself. She reluctantly agreed, and I didn't hear anymore on the matter until a few hours later when she reappeared to ask what happened when a customer doesn't pick up a cake they've ordered.
"Aw damn, not again. Seriously? Just, I don't know, put a reduce sticker on it. If someone doesn't buy it by the end of the day, we'll just bring it up here for the night staff to eat." This, along with my lax attitude to death metal being blared over the loudspeakers on the few occasions I came in at midnight to fill a large order, lead to my popularity with the stock nightshift.
"I don't know if anyone is going to want this one. The inscription is a little weird. I think it's for an anniversary or something?"
And, as I discover when I head downstairs to investigate, it sort of is.
On a large white sheetcake, G has written in markedly beautiful cursive script, HAPPY 4:20.
Misinterpreting my stunned silence as disapproval, G hastily says, "He said he was going to pick it up in five minutes, but that was hours ago. Do you think he forgot?"
I stare at her. She looks back at me. Her eyes are wide and earnest. She really has no clue.
It suddenly occurs to me that the fact that I actually know what this cake means probably makes me a deviant even if I don't imbibe myself. I'm honestly surprised she doesn't; what are they teaching you kids in school these days, anyway? Have Harold and Kumar lied to me about your generation? UNTHINKABLE.
"So . . . " I begin, then hesitate, trying to think of the best way to phrase this. It really is such very lovely writing. "You, uh, he didn't say what it was for?"
"No. He just told me what he wanted on it, then asked if we carried pork rinds."
Yeah, I bet.
After some debate, I finally decide we can't just throw it out. These things are expensive. (The cake that had been written on was about fourty dollars.) It's possible the customer has forgotten his order (I'm sure he forgets a lot, after all), but in all likelihood it's just someone's idea of a joke. I put a reduction sticker on it, and carry it to the shelf. If someone gets offended, I'll play ignorant.
The Boss walks by. And slows down as he sees the cake.
He looks at me. I look at him. Waiting.
"So," he says at length, "someone forget their cake?"
"Yeah, guess so." I say nonchalantly. He looks at the writing, and then gives me a curious look; we judge each other. Neither one of us wants to come out and say we know what the writing on the cake stands for.
"Is it for a holiday, do you think?" he asks, casually.
"Dunno. Maybe an American one?" I offer, my eyes all innocent.
"Could be, could be." He strokes his chin thoughtfully. He looks both incredibly amused and uncomfortable. "So, you're just going to . . . put it out and see if someone buys it?"
"Well . . . yeah. That's not a problem, right?"
"Oh, no. No. That's, um, that's fine."
At that exact moment, a tiny old lady totters up to us. She's wider than she is tall, a perfect little apple of a woman with a neat cap of white curls and tiny pince-nez on her button nose. The basket slung over her arm has Metamucil and a box of dog treats in it. She looks at the cake and smiles the way I've seen grandmothers look at babies. "Oh, my. Excuse me, is that for sale?"
I look at the Boss. He's pretending to be absorbed in my bagel display. Bastard.
"Yes. Um. I discounted it because it's got an inscription on it already. If you want, I could try and scrape it off. The cake itself is still fresh."
"Oh no. No, don't worry, sweetheart." She takes the cake from me and settles it carefully in her arms. "The writing is just fine by me."
And she winks at me before she toddles off.
Although the Boss inevitably found this as hysterical as I did, we had to change our policy on cake writing thereafter, requiring the person ordering the cake to actually be there in person and wait for the writing to be done.
Personally, I like to imagine some guy, somewhere, waking up on a couch covered in Doritoes the next day, sitting bolt upright and dislodging an avalanche of crumbs as he says in dismay, "Shit. I forgot my cake!" Although admittedly the visual of someone's grandma celebrating the holidays is pretty entertaining, too.
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. Do something you enjoy with someone you love.
Or just order a cake and celebrate anyway.
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