One time my dad told me the most frequent word said on a golf course is ‘motherfucker.’ It made total sense to me. Honestly. No follow up questions. On a night bake I start to use any combination of ‘fucks’ I can think of.
‘Fucking piping bag bullshit motherfucking…’
It’s like jazz.
‘CJ, you stupid fucking fuck.’
At some point in the night there’s a moment of uncertainty while shuffling the trays around between the racks. A typical come-to-jesus portion of activities where I’m finding out what I should have prepared before hand in real time. Thinking, I can steel over. I can get it done. I can pull through. Fucking christ man, get it together.
Alone in the bakery my mind outdoes itself. I’ll stare around at every reminder of my generous fallibility. Surrounded by a collection of misfit treats. Caught edges and uneven lines. This is a perfect time to figure things out. Gaze into the void and contemplate that which eludes me. Ask the important questions. Like, how many fuckin donuts do I need to underproof before I’m supposed to stop doing that kind of thing?
You know, it’s not that hard to set a timer. Notoriously easy, oddly enough. Hit it and quit it. Walk away. 90 minutes. Fuck off, go do something useful in the meantime. Make some dough. Crank out some muffins. Take your lunch break. All you gotta do is set the fucking thing and come back later.
Will it always feel like returning to the scene of a crime? A sad morass of dough bubbling over the edges of the pan, dripping towards the flat top like a Dali gag. Dragging it to the bin and disposing of it like a dead body. I’m guilty on all counts of being a fucko. A dipshit. A world class moron.
It would be nice if I made a smart mistake for once.
How do I calculate my aggregate rate of failure? It could help put some things into perspective. Take F (fuckups) divided by C (crushed it), solve for BA (baking average, obviously). One time someone told me, ‘Hey, Hank Aaron only got on base 37% of the time and he was the greatest to ever do it!’ I didn’t know what to make of that. Does that mean I should expect to fuck it 63% of the time? Can’t I up those numbers a bit? I’m no Barry Bonds but can’t I get to 50% failure? Is that too much of a stretch? It’s not like I have to hit against Sandy Koufax. It’s not impossible.
How many times do I need to make the commute all the way home just to be hit with that sudden realization that I left something in the back of the oven? $60 worth of chocolate chip briquettes now lost to the convection bermuda triangle. What’s the right amount of time to fixate on how sweet the coffee cake is? An afternoon aught to do it, right? Should we make it a whole evening? Wouldn’t hurt to spend the day mulling it over, surely.
I’m convinced my body is made of something as sturdy as dead grass. Every movement feels like rust flaking off my skeleton. What are the chances it’s all in the mind? What’s the actual likelihood my shoulder and my back and my knees all hurt at the same time? What’s the fuckin conspiracy here? Is it possible I’m just bored with my own thoughts? Maybe I just need to stop fixating on grams or milliliters, fructose or glucose, agar agar or pectin. Is it possible I’m just a little depressed that all I did, effectively, is fuck a bunch of shit up to slightly less varying degrees?
‘Maybe you wouldn’t have fucked that up if you weren’t such a fucking dipshit.’
‘Holy fucking shit I fucking suck.’
Ten tries into a new recipe and I’m pretty sure no one wants to eat this fucking scone anyways. I made this combination of flavors too complicated and the whole thing is just overthought and underdone. What’s the point of trying when there’s always someone trying harder? Trying better? Trying less with larger results? Not trying at all but no one will shut the fuck up about how incredibly gifted they are? It’s not a competition but why am I skulking around with this grim sense that I fucking blew it?
‘God fucking dammit I’m going to get this shit right today or I’m gonna fucking jump of a fucking bridge.’
It’s all in good fun. That’s just the nature of the game.
‘I swear to fucking christ this fucker better be fucking perfect.’
How many years of this do I have to put in before I finally learn to compartmentalize my shit? I still wear it like a vinyl storefront banner. Big red ‘fuck off, I’m in a bad fucking mood’ printed in block letters. As charming as a low-rent going out of business sign. Disinviting conversation with the vacancy in my eyes. How much longer until I bake myself out of this soulless husk and into a master of the craft? How many more tries before I’m satisfied with how satisfied people are? When will I bridge the gap between ‘this bake defines me’ and ‘fuck it it’s already fucked.’
How many more hours do I need to procrastinate on the couch with Survivor droning in the background before I realize it’s not working? Detached from my body and mind. When will I stop trying to run the bake on 4 hours of sleep and just do it right for once? Grow up. Stop wasting my potential. Rebuild my strategy from the ground up. Hydrate. Lock in. Dig deep and get to the nitty fucking gritty. Jeff Probst narrating my heroics. Outproof. Outbake. Out…pastry.
This. After testing a simple brownie recipe dozens of times, I thought to myself "Does anyone even like brownies?"
But then I brought them to a party and they got devoured. So yes.
I believe perfectionists are never satisfied with their work 🤷♀️