The Garden Bakery
Safely inside The Garden Bakery, Ben looked around to see if anything had changed since the last time he was there a few months ago. He remembered they used to have a chime that would ring when people would walk in, but that seemed to be gone. Behind the counter was the owner, Linda. She had been there for as long as Ben could remember, but never seemed like she really wanted to be there. Coming out from the back kitchen was Greg, covered in a variety of powder and cream, almost like the toppings exploded while he was getting the donuts and pastries together.
The walls were covered in flower-print wallpaper that looked to have been there since the 1970s, and the customer area didn’t look like any improvements had been made since the place opened.
The line of customers came through the door and snaked along the wall opposite the counter, then wrapped first near the case with coffee cakes, finally snaking back to the main counter area. The front counter was filled with assorted donuts and cookies, including Ben’s favorites, a raised, glazed donut and a chocolate triangle, which was a raised donut in the shape of a triangle, filled with angel cream, and topped with chocolate frosting.
Normally Ben’s favorite donuts were in the racks behind the counter, but with it being Fat Tuesday, those racks were filled with assorted paczki.
The back racks looked as old as the bakery, and the peeling, powder-blue paint on the wood shelving revealed that there had never been any other layers of paint since the place opened. The racks were haphazardly resting on the shelving, at a slight angle so the customers could see what was available.
Off to the side, behind the counter, rested a cash register that looked weathered but served its purpose. The plastic sides of the register, which at one time were bright white, had faded into a flat yellow, and the register spit out a receipt that was never legible as the ink probably hadn’t been changed in years.
On normal days, The Garden Bakery was filled with regulars, picking up donuts for family or work, or as in Ben’s case, just for themself. As Ben was standing along the wall, he remembered a time he would stop every Friday, and sometimes on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, and get his raised glaze and chocolate triangle. Linda or Greg would see him coming from the parking lot, and they would have the donuts ready for him by the time he got to the counter.
There was never much chit-chat for Ben; he just wanted his donuts, but he always did his best to be upbeat with a big smile, hoping Linda might actually smile.
Today, though, the bakery was filled with about 50% regulars and 50% people who were just there for the paczki. You could see the regulars, like Ben, were annoyed with the newcomers, but the regulars all knew that this event and annoyance only came once a year.
Ben made his way along the wall, gazing at the racks behind the counter, completely oblivious to his normal choices of donut.
Ben hummed under his breath,
“It’s Paczki Day
“It’s Paczki Day
“Everybody say “Yay” for Paczki Day!”