a dream deferred
What happens to a dream deferred?
Defer: put off or postpone.
My dream deferred young. In the backyard. There was no grass, just dirt & weeds, a can of ashes from the woodstove & a tire swing: my oven. I would mix ashes & dirt in whatever containers I’d find, put them in the tire & push them back & forth, the velocity affecting the end result.. “Baking.” When I decided they were ready, twigs & leaves were gently placed on top to adorn each creation. Layering different materials created pastries of all kinds, or at least all kinds that I knew at the time.
I remember the day my new oven came. It was momentous. The range in our kitchen had had enough. My parents got a new one & the old one was headed to the curb. Somehow I convinced them that the backyard was a better spot for that gem. Tucked among the tiny sprouting trees & mosquitos in a corner. My first real kitchen. Buckets with a stone slab laid across: counters. A popcorn can full of old ash: flour bin. Compost pile: ingredients. Copious amounts of natural ephemera at my disposal to decorate. One old pie plate so one pie at a time, I baked. I’d cook the filling on top of the stove, stir the concoction in the pie tin & smooth the top just right. I’d develop systems, recipes. On walks I’d collect ingredients around the neighborhood. But the magic was in the oven. When the sludge was the perfect consistency of dirt, water & ash & if it sat just the right amount of time it would dry enough that I could even slice some sort of wedge to serve my clientele.
People would come from all over my imagination to try my treats. They’d even complain & get their money back when it wasn’t to my standards. I’d negotiate with an angry old lady over how rocks weren’t evenly dispersed, apologizing profusely. I’d wrap up a cake in a tea towel for a little boy’s birthday party, his dad eager to dive into the chocolate frosting. Each pastry told its own story, none of them were the same. I’d create scenarios full of joy or anxiety: rushing to complete an order on time; burnt cookies, berating myself for an oven not set right. The theme was consistent though: share. Create. Nourish others with your craft. Bring life to someone’s day & then let it go. It gets consumed & it’s done. Back into the ash pile.
As a kid, I played all kinds of imaginary games, dissociating from reality. I spent hours creating worlds of fantasy: homes, classrooms, dance studios. But my bakery was where bliss & stress blended in perfect harmony. There is so much emotion in food. Contentment & conflict. Attachment. Guilt. Delight. Simplicity. Love.
As I’ve grown, my bakery dreams have adopted routes all their own & my backyard still holds my heart. It’s where the dream was born & where it still lives. I’ve manifested many iterations of fayecheezy onto paper, into recipes but nowhere else makes sense to me. I feel lost when I scour for commercial real estate, buildings feel cold & lifeless. My yards have changed & my recipes have shifted but the backyard always feels right. When I feel defeated at times, wondering how to get out of the wheel of this industry, discouraged by numbers, by quality, by control, I set the dream aside, I defer. But it sneaks in. It tickles me when I slip. A tray of tarts baked to perfection or a loaf of bread steaming because I couldn’t wait long enough to slice it. A person’s face when their cake is delivered. A trunk full of boxes ready to be demolished. It’s my happy place. A dream.
Deferring our dreams helps them build, they age like a fine wine. My backyard bakery sits with me, deferred until the sun hits just right & the mud dries into the perfect pie.
