All That and Then Some

MAEVE

OKAY, BEAR WITH ME. You're going to think this is sappy as hell, but it's my current truth — as close to one as I can get anyway — so you'll have to deal.

When I was away at university, I was conscious of trying to exist a certain way. To fit in. To be smart. To walk the path I'd set out for myself by applying to that program in the first place. And that's not even taking into account the whole mess with Jules. I'm just talking about Maeve here; who I wanted to be.

Since I've been back, I've picked up a couple of shifts at the cafe. Mainly to help out while Mum's working out whether she's going to do a deal with Carvil. And that's been okay. Better than okay, even. It's been kind of good—another way of coming home.

During slow periods, I've been spending time in the cafe kitchen—just sort of digging out my old baking tins, the bowls, the measuring cups and spoons. Not using them yet. Just looking at them. Getting to know them again. Saying hello.

But an idea has been growing in the back of my mind that I might just work here again. Bake again.

When I bake — when I'm engaged in the process of weighing, sifting, spooning, folding — my mind goes completely still. I don't try to exist in any particular way. I just do.

The only thing stopping me, outside of Mum probably losing her mind about wasting my tuition and losing a year at school, is that they don't exactly need me in the kitchen anymore. They have croissants and eclairs, macarons, and all these gorgeous little cakes that the Patisserie Margolie delivers. My scones and muffins could never compete with all that French fanciness.

And no, that's not me looking for someone to say, "Oh, Maeve, you're such a good baker. There's room in the world for patisserie *and* scones!" It's really not.

I know I'm a good baker. I have an instinct for it. But when I sit down with one of those Margolie croissants and pull its translucent buttery sheets apart, it's like... I don't know. I feel like a finger painter standing in front of a Monet for the first time. Like realizing I might know the basics, but I haven't achieved mastery. Not even close.

The more I sit with that feeling, the more I start to see an unexpected path forward. Because, unlike most finger painters, I'm not discouraged by my evident lack of mastery. I'm kind of excited.

Instead of going back to school and paying them to teach me how to become soulless, what if I stayed here and learned how to bake? For real. Maybe apprentice under Margolie? Now that I've thought it, I can't stop thinking it. Baking makes me happy. Why not master what makes me happy and then do that for the rest of my life instead of wasting time getting a degree in something that gives me nothing back but a paycheque?

Jules has been helping me sort through these ideas. We've been texting and FaceTiming a bit since the night she told me she misses me and I didn't say it back. Keeping it light, but we're talking again. That in itself, plus this new vision of my future that might be forming — it feels pretty good.

I'm stacking the stainless steel bowls back on the shelves and thinking how I might convince Mum that ditching the rest of the year is a good plan when she comes through the backdoor looking a bit like a Scottish clown made a baby with one of Robert Palmer's Addicted to Love girls.

"Blergh," she says in greeting, pouring a glass of water straight from the tap.

"What. Is. All. This?" I wave my hand in a sort of sweeping gesture of distaste across the whole bizarre tartan outfit she's got on, starting at the oversized 80s shoulder pads and working down to the super-wide gold belt that looks a bit like a prom date's cumberbund.

"Vivian says it's retro-chic," she explains, tossing two painkillers down her throat and taking another swig of water.

"Well, it's retro. I dunno about chic."