another try

dishes clattered and glasses clinked together as the other bakers thoroughly cleaned up the shop, their shifts coming to a close soon. the atmosphere in the store always seemed to carry a soft and kind wave of encouragment, emitting from the bakery owner's radiant optimism and pride that never seemed to falter. it was another successful day, a number of pastries were sold and enjoyed by all their customers, the expected regulars also recieving their usual orders, baked to perfection.

...

at least that was until the signalling finished chime from one of the ovens echoed throughout the kitchen, eager shuffling and the sound of the rack sliding out could also be heard. some of the workers glanced at one another, knowing of what was likely to come next. the bakery owner had always made a quick batch before closing, one that followed the same ingredients and directions that everyone else had used. and yet everytime, the outcome would produce a sharp sensation that deterred almost every consumer that had the misfortune to smell, indicating the pungent and bitter flavour the food has to offer for anyone tasting.

and like usual, the unpleasant scent filled the room's air, the mood of the place shifting to one of awkwardness. the woman picked up one of the baked goods—happening to try out the sablé recipe on her menu—taking a small but hopeful nibble on the food. ... only for her face to scrunch up repulsively, a napkin already placed in her other hand to spit the pastry out into. it was disgusting, and even more disappointing to say that this was the usual. this was the normality of her situation, and for a split second she could feel herself growing angry, body itching to just give up. but she couldn't. not in front of her employees, not when she had a face to keep up.

this happens so often that you should grow used to it. but it wasn't about the food anymore. it was truly about the bakery owner, the girl who had done this routine a thousand times over, failing again. it wasn't that she hated being pitied, the woman would appreciate any support that had come her way from any person—it was the split hopelessness that panged deep down from herself, a nerve that had struck a part of her that really hurt.

why couldn't she just do it correctly? it didn't make sense at all, she trained all of her employees, wrote down the recipes, and yet the moment she lays a hand on a dish the quality is beyond saving. and if all these attempts laid futile, what would her own parents think? she had kept up a face to their occupations, her father expecting to see further income and improvement from the business, while her dad expected the quality of the pastries to remain just as fine.

in fact, the woman had never told them of her struggles, having lied to them ever since she had left home to study at a college. the treats she had fed them were constructed by her most favoured and talented worker, paying the employee extra as a thank you for the quick and appreciated service to keep her reputation.

eventually, she'd have to tell them. eventually, she'd have to take accountability, face everything and not pretend to be someone she isn't. she wasn't the picture perfect daughter of paris' most renowned food critics. she was marieanne vacher, a baker who just wants her food to bring joy to people. she was manon, a woman who truly loved to share the her kindess through words, through actions, through her own baking.

...

tossing the batch into the bin left an even more bitter aftertaste in the baker's mouth, but she had no choice. the food was inedible at that point, and despite everyone else's kindness to try it, she knew it was pointless. it was a waste of ingredients, really. ... she would try again tomorrow.

one day she'd get there. one day she'd see meet him again, when they're both ready. perhaps then her baking would be sweet enough to satisfy both of them. she just needed to hold out and keep trying.