I suppose I see the world a bit different from the way that everyone else sees it. To me, life is simple, like a recipe. If I add the proper ingredients and bake for the right amount of time everything should turn out correctly. Except nothing is an exact science.

     Question for the masses; What dissolves faster, sugar or salt? If you said salt you would be incorrect. Scientifically speaking salt has a higher solubility, but in the kitchen I've worked with both and I can say with certainty sugar dissolves faster and more clear than salt. 

     That's life, the salt. It should go well, it should dissolve, but you're left with little bits at the bottom of cloudy water wondering where the equation went wrong. That's why I don't like science. Don't get me wrong it's not like I don't believe in science, I do. However I think I could learn a lot more at the world by looking around than I ever would from some stupid equation with far too many exceptions. 

     Rules shouldn't have exceptions, but they do. Like every family is supposed to have a mother and a father... except mine. My mother refers to my father as sperm donor #1, but I know they were married, and he left. I don't remember many things from my childhood, but I remember that. He said he was going out to get milk, but he never came back. My mom's a superhero; the only thing she had to say was "damn, we really needed the milk." I don't miss my father. I think we manage perfectly well without him, managing our own business and such. If I know my mother, I'm sure a man like that only weighed her down.

     I think that's why she started the business in the first place, she finally felt like she was free. I always loved our little bakery, it was like stepping into the streets of France, and the smell- Oh the bakery had the most heavenly aroma. It was always filled with a mouth watering smell of cinnamon rolls, bread, and chocolate which mingled together and oozed out of the windows and doors enticing passerby to come inside.

     Our bakery was like magic. All of the sudden people could convince themselves they needed things while inside there. I think that's why mom was so insistent about the ambiance; it boosts sales. From the outside it was a ivy covered pink building that dawned large windows with gold writing telling of the many treats that lay inside. There were blue awnings, flower boxes, patio tables, and little chairs to sit out on and drink a cappuccino while watching the town spawn around you. We were selling a mindset, an air of superiority, as much as we were selling any product directly. The consumers knew that too, and they were alright with it. 

     My mother wanted to bring France to the United States. The area of the town we were in was cute with little shops, fountains, and bridges, but no cafe's and my mom sought to fix that. At first she had an old wooden down bakery, barely big enough to fit a four tiered wedding cake, where now she had a large building with a comfortable apartment for us to live in, all earned from her own work ethic. 

     It was difficult to grow up like that, especially as my mother became a staple of the community, and at first I struggled. My mother had given me a French name in hopes of passing on her love of Europe, Pierre, and it singled me out in school. Most people expected I could bake, being from a bakery, and for a while I couldn't. Then it was the expectation and disappointment that pushed me to become one of the best bakers that the town had ever seen. 

     After years in the industry you pick up a few things, a few special talents, which made my contribution to the business invaluable. Macarons, cupcakes, cookies, profiteroles, cream puffs, every Saturday morning, than a small break followed by, sandwiches, drink orders, specialty cakes, and finally more macarons. 

     Our bakery is famous for my macarons, especially being that mother never could make them. She suffered from baking too long or mixing too much, which made them crack and deflate. I suppose I was always a touch more patient then here. I make vanilla and chocolate every morning, and specialty flavors in the afternoon, that's what I'm in charge of.  I like to think of it as a department, like I'm head of the macaron department. 

     Aside from me, my mother only bother to hire one other employee, Helen. She was a nice old lady, and she had practically raised me. Helen used to joke that she was the father I never had, which I fond funny. I never had a father, but Helen certainly took care of me.  Helen was without a doubt the most stubborn person anyone had ever known, save for me of course. 

     As a person who suffered from bullying, work at the bakery became one of my only reliefs. My friend Gabriel and I would spend hours trying new recipes in the kitchen, with Soufflé, my dog laying behind the counter at our feet. It was a nice existence, the sheer atmosphere of the bakery just radiated good vibes, and made me feel better instantly. 

      Gabriel wasn't much of a baker, he was more of a taster, but he was a good friend, and I'd known him for a long time. Gabriel always had a smile on his face, and a big appetite, the number one thing needed to enjoy your time at the bakery. 

     I kept everything in my life in perfect order, strictly following the recipe for success. After college I was going to come back and work at the bakery, and one day after my mother retired I would own it, and run it all by myself. I also wanted to travel. I wanted to travel desperately, and see Paris, and all the wonderful things Europe had to offer. I wanted to study at the feet of some of the best bakers the world had ever seen, and bring back their wealth of knowledge to our home town. For me, baking wasn't just a hobby, but a passion.