Baked Magic

                                                    Baked Magic [435 words]

The cinder block building holds court on a drab corner of industrial highway at the edge of town. Once inside I scan twenty feet of specialty cakes and gift basket items against the wall. Six coffee air pots stand sentry, their blends a bold contrast from mellow Colombian regular to decaffeinated swill. The offer of a bottomless cup summons all who can muster up to the counter.

I join the bakery’s morning assemblage, inhaling the essence of my first cup of fresh coffee and a doughnut I pinch as a priest the Eucharist. One of the faithful, not wanting his brew too cool, bellows from the burn of his tongue. Another, right hand filling the cup while the left jostles two bags of cookies, struggles, then gloats, surprised at his dexterity.

Once past the coffee bar the hungry, seduced by sugar wafts, form an ant trail to the delectables. Just one layer of glass separates nostril flesh from bear claw. Behind this glass showcase workers drone over the day’s offerings. Dishes, pans, spatulas – these instruments bring forth the life in baking. But only hands can carry it. With cinnamon and vanilla, these hands baptize, anoint with apple or chocolate, wrap in a blanket of dough. They fold and tuck.

Outside the bakery a senior care van empties its cargo of old women, their hands kneading walkers and canes. Like antique cars shined up for show, they parade through the door behind their own lives’ scents. Lipstick, powder and rouge for sunken cheeks and sometimes, yes, the perfume of funerals herald their arrival. A bereted man attends them at the door. Paying him little mind, the women press forward to the display of kringles, crumb cake, melt-a ways, and strudel. They pile up at the pie pockets, then disperse to the Danish, almond horns and Marzipan tarts. They stage-whisper when a kalache or Rugelach spawns a memory. Such a morning out includes the departed. So rich and so sweet, so mellow - this moment.

Down the row, two men grapple the life out of plastic forks. One, hat peaked forward and sunglasses perched toward the back, dunks his coffee cake and rants politics. His voice takes up more space than the bakery. The second, a red-suspendered man, tongues whipped cream off an éclair. Mop the mouth, lift head to listen, smack, slurp, repeat.

Together the singular ingredients of our presence on earth mix up magic at our local bakery. All morning that bereted man gets up to hold open the door. All morning he says, “Come in. . . . Come in.”

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