The Oven's Mark

I used to work in the dining hall at Skidmore College. Correction: I spent most of my time working at the bakery at the dining hall,  traying (and tasting, how could I resist?) cookies whilst talking with the pastry chefs. I vividly remember the warnings from Robin, Chucky and Matt about burns.

"Watch out hun, this rack is fresh from the oven," or "tray these ones first, the rest are much too hot!" I asked Robin once about her burns. They're inevitable. You reach for the wrong rack and OUCH! Or you pull out a hot tray and ZAP, there's a line across your forearm. Their battle scars were heroic--lining their skin like tattoos.

I'm certainly not that epic. I just haven't been baking long enough or to scale to earn my scar cred, but a little sloppy haste yesterday and I have a line and a bandaged hand to show for it. And the sick part, as I'm sure you've already guessed by the tone in this post, is that I revel in my burns. My battle wounds! The evidence that I made ten dozen Biscaitie, three batches of cookies, orange poppyseed muffins and mini cheesecakes all in one day. I'm careful, but enough working in a kitchen and I'm slowly becoming branded a baker.