Strawberries
“Not like that, like this.”
The sickly-sweet smell of strawberries, grease and sugar perfume the air.
Regina takes the tip of her little paring knife, a groove for her finger worn into the top, and shows me yet again how to hull a strawberry. Quickly, sharply and precisely, she removes the green leaves and the white part just underneath them from the top of the strawberry, taking none of the red with her, making the hole as tiny as possible.
I take my knife and slowly try to imitate her movements. It’s no use, I’ve got the tiniest bit of red on the hull as I remove it from the knife. I know that I’m going to get a good tongue lashing – but seriously, this is the best I can do. And I’m so slow.
A few months into my first job working as a “bakery girl” in the local German Bakery, I have quickly learned this is not what I want to do for the rest of my life. Washing greasy baking sheets in the hottest possible water, with no soap to assist in getting the stuck-on stuff (or the finish) off the pans. Standing for 8-hour shifts – the bakers did, they expected no less from their girls. Waiting politely on customers for hours on a Saturday or Sunday morning. If there were no customers, wash the glass on the cases. “Make sure that you leave no streaks, now.”
Hulling strawberries was a relative privilege. It was the only time Regina ever sat down, perching herself on a stool. We stood next to her.
The need for perfection was to create the strawberries that sat on top of the tarts Klaus made. The biggest, most beautiful strawberries needed to stay that way – without any giant holes disfiguring them. I appreciated the detail (maybe even more now than then) but the work to get it “right” eluded me the entire year and a half that I worked there.
I knew that if Regina called me over to help her hull strawberries that it was because she was angry. At something. And she was going to take it out on me. This was a different twist on expecting me to be perfect than what I was used to at home. It felt dark, uncomfortable, not for my benefit. I hated being the baker’s scapegoat.
After I got my driver’s license, I quit that job and moved on to working for the town florist. She was demanding as well, but I knew I was loved and appreciated there.
To this day, when I hull strawberries (and yes, I can do it perfectly now) I hear Regina’s stern voice in my ear. “No! Do it this way.”
The sickly-sweet smell of strawberries, grease and sugar perfume the air.
Regina takes the tip of her little paring knife, a groove for her finger worn into the top, and shows me yet again how to hull a strawberry. Quickly, sharply and precisely, she removes the green leaves and the white part just underneath them from the top of the strawberry, taking none of the red with her, making the hole as tiny as possible.
I take my knife and slowly try to imitate her movements. It’s no use, I’ve got the tiniest bit of red on the hull as I remove it from the knife. I know that I’m going to get a good tongue lashing – but seriously, this is the best I can do. And I’m so slow.
A few months into my first job working as a “bakery girl” in the local German Bakery, I have quickly learned this is not what I want to do for the rest of my life. Washing greasy baking sheets in the hottest possible water, with no soap to assist in getting the stuck-on stuff (or the finish) off the pans. Standing for 8-hour shifts – the bakers did, they expected no less from their girls. Waiting politely on customers for hours on a Saturday or Sunday morning. If there were no customers, wash the glass on the cases. “Make sure that you leave no streaks, now.”
Hulling strawberries was a relative privilege. It was the only time Regina ever sat down, perching herself on a stool. We stood next to her.
The need for perfection was to create the strawberries that sat on top of the tarts Klaus made. The biggest, most beautiful strawberries needed to stay that way – without any giant holes disfiguring them. I appreciated the detail (maybe even more now than then) but the work to get it “right” eluded me the entire year and a half that I worked there.
I knew that if Regina called me over to help her hull strawberries that it was because she was angry. At something. And she was going to take it out on me. This was a different twist on expecting me to be perfect than what I was used to at home. It felt dark, uncomfortable, not for my benefit. I hated being the baker’s scapegoat.
After I got my driver’s license, I quit that job and moved on to working for the town florist. She was demanding as well, but I knew I was loved and appreciated there.
To this day, when I hull strawberries (and yes, I can do it perfectly now) I hear Regina’s stern voice in my ear. “No! Do it this way.”
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