Daisy's Bread 'n Barter - Chapter 2

I never considered myself an artist.  And I refuse to call myself one.  I am adamant that it would cheapen the suffering and the talents of an artist if I do.  

That said, I secretly pride myself for possessing some of their stereotypical personalities.  For one, I can be very eccentric when it comes to the value of my "art."  I refuse to put a price tag on anything I create.  I would get philosophical and proclaim that my art is not for sale in exchange for money.  Not my paintings. Not my drawings.  Not my music. Not my bread.  That is, assuming anyone would even pay any money for any of it, but that's not the point.  If I never put a price tag on it, I never have to say "nobody bought it..."   

I adored and safe-guarded my imaginary CSA bread delivery service, Flour Petals by Daisy, since the idea was born in my head three years ago.  Too many times at the dinner table, I forced Eric and Katie, my niece, listen to me pontificating about my virtual bakery.  I would bake in the weekends, I rationalize.  I had details down to the kind of plastic bags I would use for my bread - the kind that breaths, with hundreds of tiny pin-size holes.  Summertime came, I got addicted to making the old fashioned jellyrolls - classic jellyrolls, chocolate rolls, coffee rolls, real vanilla whipped cream, coffee whipped cream, and all flavors of jam and preserves.  Countless combinations and possibilities.  I took the imaginary FPBD to an imaginary Jellyroll Stand at the West Seattle Farmers Market. "Roll While You Wait!  Customize Your Flavors!"  I was full of sparks and enthusiasm. "Cupcakes sell because they're nostalgic; they remind people of their happy and easy childhood." I would emote to my poor husband and niece, still, at the dinner table.  "Jellyrolls are filled with nostalgia.  Jellyrolls ARE nostalgia." How many jellyroll shops have you seen down the street?  NONE!  My point precisely!    

A therapist would likely trace my addiction to my upbringing, so it seems fitting and convenient to blame my parents for my madness:  I never operated a street-side lemonade stand as a child.  If I did, like most peers of my generation, I would've gotten that "running my own business" nonsense out of my system.  And as a result, I most certainly would not be so enamored with my jellyrolls...  

Deep down, I fully accept that I am not in any physical, emotional, or mental strength to hold a 50+ hours full time job and run FPBD in the weekend.  FPBD is not a weekend gig.  It deserves my full attention.  It is a full time commitment.  It is working out of a commissary kitchen.  It is dealing with the bureaucrats and the health department.  It is book-keeping.  It is crawling out of bed at obscene hours of the morning.  It is appealing to the public that wants a lot but pays a little, so called "value."  It is kissing Coffee with Eric good-bye, forever.  It is putting a monetary value on my bread.  It is against everything I want to do.  It is...selling my soul!

Drama queen.  Still. 

FPBD continues living rent-free in my head, tapping my limbic system whenever I need a jolt of emotional high.  Until this week.  A perfect solution has dawned on me, thanks to my favorite coffee from Guatemala called Casi Cielo, a limited offering at Starbucks.  

As such, Daisy's Bread 'N Barter is born!  
(to be continued)