Bread and Butter
“Why am I not allowed to go into the back house?” I asked my parents.
“You mean the bake house. It’s too dangerous for little kids,” my Papa told me for the hundredth time.
The back house is what I called it. The second house. Any time I was at school I’d brag to the other kids that we had two houses, not just one. Of course, I’d never mention that the second house was a bakery, or that no one actually lived in it. All they needed to know was that I had two and that made me cooler than them.
“What if I didn’t go alone? What if I went with you or Momma?” I continued to pry.
“No,” he huffed but my mother was far more kind about it.
“If you went back there you’d try to steal all the things we were baking. Then we’d have angry patrons,” she smiled and pat my head. “Can’t have that, the bakery is our bread and butter.”
It was a constant disappointment that I was never allowed into the bakery. Just cause I was little didn’t mean I’d get into trouble. Sure, I probably would take a muffin or two if I got in there. Maybe sneak out a jar of cookies. My parents got deliveries of fancy jars for their orders all the time, no reason I couldn’t have just one.
I always knew when my parents were going to bake a big order. A car would come by and drop off a huge boxes of supplies. Ingredients. With how big those boxes were they could bake dozens upon dozens of cakes. God it wasn’t fair. They never brought their food back to the house. The order was for a ‘very important function’ is what they always said. Not for us. They promised that they didn’t get to eat any of it but I never believed them.
So I promised myself that I’d find a way to check it out.