Paczki Day at the Bakery

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I'm Catherine Nicolai.

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Our story tonight is called Punchki Day at the bakery, and it's a story about a bustling

morning in a shop downtown.

It's also about rose-hip jam and powdered sugar, wax paper, and yearly traditions that

have lasted for as long as anyone can remember, a line stretching down the sidewalk, generous

tendencies among neighbors, and the people who exist in every community, making days smoother

and sweeter.

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Draw a deep breath in through your nose, and sigh it out, again breathe in, and out.

Good.

There are a few things that will entice folks to wait in line under grey skies, on the

slushy sidewalks at this time of year, but a sweet, rich street, or even better, a box

of them, still warm and smelling of jam and powdered sugar just may do it.

And considering that these treats are not available all year round, that they make a very

brief appearance on bakery counters and store shelves, and are therefore all the more

precious.

Well, I've seen people stand bundled up in a driving snow storm, or struggle to keep

umbrellas open against pelting sleet for that.

And today it was neither snowing nor sleeting, so the line stretched down the block, nearly

to the entrance of the park, and the people waiting in it were in good spirits.

Stomping their feet now and then against the cold, genially bickering over the best flavors,

and the proper pronunciation of the delicious Polish doughnuts that had drawn them all out

at the end of winter.

The baker had, of course, heard it all over the years, that the only traditional fillings

were plum butter or rose hip jam, that it wasn't punchkey, but punchkey, that they should

be rolled in caster sugar while still hot, or dusted with powdered sugar as they cooled.

She had long ago adopted the policy of simply agreeing with whatever customer she was serving,

sitting shrewdly as she reached for another sheet of wax paper and filled box after box.

Tradition was important, she knew, and so let each patron protect their own version

of it, and she certainly did stock those heritage flavors, but also had raspberry or strawberry

jam, as well as lemon custard and vanilla cream.

She had grown up saying punchkey, but let herself be corrected good naturedly by those who

had grown up hearing it said some other way.

Most customers had favorites, they secured right away, then filled the rest of the box

with a mix of the other flavors to pass around the office or kitchen.

Occasionally, she'd have a punchkey newbie, a first timer, who felt both the weight of

an assortment of options and a long line at their heels.

She in fact had what she called first punchkey day boxes, which held a selection with

each flavor they sold, as well as a small card with some information about them, and

like chocolates in a sampler, had a diagram printed inside the box, identifying each one.

The newbies often let out a sigh as she handed over a box and relieved, stepped down to

the register with a grateful smile on their faces.

Punchkey day required a good deal of preparation in order to run smoothly and provide enough

for each patron, who, suddenly finding themselves at the front of the line, might be struck

with a surge of generosity and think to themselves, let me also get a dozen for the night shift,

or the family next door, or the teacher's lounge.

The baker had a system that had been refined over the years.

It involved an ordering process that started the month before, filling and do prep that

required extra staff, and a conveyor belt of bakers working the friars and piping

bags, and kitchen carts, and heaven forbid the custards get mixed up with the creams.

At least the jelly-filled donuts showed a dot of the fruit, where the nozzle went in

to identify them, and certainly if they made just a few

batches, some brave self-sacrificing soul could volunteer to taste one, to identify it,

but they would make hundreds of batches with thousands of pastries, so a strict organizing

system involving colored baking paper was adhered to.

By 8.30 in the morning, she heard that the line had reached all the way into the park,

and that some folks were sitting on benches while they waited for it to advance.

The baker blushed when she heard that.

The year before, it had not gotten that long, but it seemed that the word was out, and

that people were coming from farther and farther away for their punchkeys.

She had a number of sold pastries in her head, that she was hoping to hit.

She hadn't said it aloud to anyone.

She'd just planned for it, believed in it, and would know when she'd hit it, or even surpassed

it.

By the wall of ready boxes stacked up along the coffee station.

It had reached to the ceiling when she'd flipped the open sign this morning, and now, just

an hour and a half later, she peaked over her shoulder to see that it was only hip-high.

The heat from the friars was balanced out by the constant opening of the doors, as customers

inched in and others squeezed out.

There was a jovial atmosphere on the sidewalk, as folks made friends after standing in line

so long together.

And inside the bakery itself, there was an ordered chaos, as the cash register rang,

and calls for more napkins and, behind, were heard and heated.

The baker noticed a commotion outside the window, and heard raised voices, and braced

herself for a possible, low-blood sugar-related tantrum or line-cutting scandal.

Instead, she saw the waitress from the diner across the street, ushering a young man in

a tie and coat through the door.

It's his first day at work, and he wants to bring a couple dozen in to make a good impression.

Make way, folks.

Let's help him out.

He can't be late.

We've all been there.

People smiled and made way when the young man nervously adjusted his tie and thanked

them as the path cleared.

There are some people in town who can do these types of things.

They are known, have put in their time at local spots long enough to be listened to when

they raise their voice.

The waitress had worked early mornings and late nights for years, and poured coffee for

just about every resident of the village at one point or another.

She'd earned the right to make such a call.

She guided the new office worker right over to the baker and told him to go ahead, dear,

just plan better next time.

He swallowed and began to point to various flavors, asking for two of those three of these.

The waitress winked at the baker while she packed the boxes and got a chuckling smile

in return.

As the man carried the boxes to the register and the line resumed its movement, the waitress

slipped behind the counter to claim the diner's own order, a rolling cart full of their usual

sandwich breads and muffins, as well as wrapped trays of the day's special doughnuts.

She'd roll it straight out the back door and down the alley to the diner's kitchen.

She and the baker were important cogs in this downtown breakfast machine, and today they

were showing off how seamlessly it could run.

By the time they would meet for a sandwich this afternoon, they'd have a few stories to

share.

The baker would finally say the number she'd had in her head, and how many dozens over

it they'd sold.

The waitress would tell her the young man's name, and how he'd called later from the office

to think her.

They joked sometimes that one of them should run for mayor, but that they got much more

done this way.

Punchky day at the bakery.

There are few things that will entice folks to wait in line, under gray skies, on the

slushy sidewalks at this time of year, but a sweet, rich treat, or even better, a box

of them still warm and smelling of jam and powdered sugar may just do it.

And considering that these treats are not available all year round, that they make a

very brief appearance on bakery counters and store shelves, and are therefore all the

more precious.

Well, I've seen people stand bundled up in a driving snowstorm or struggle to keep umbrellas

open against pelting sleet for that.

And today, it was neither snowing nor sleeting, so the line stretched down the block, nearly

to the entrance of the park, and the people waiting in it were in good speed.

They were in good spirits, stomping their feet, now and then against the cold, genially

bickering over the best flavors, and the proper pronunciation of the delicious Polish donuts

that had drawn them all out at the end of winter.

The baker had, of course, heard it all over the years, that the only traditional fillings

were plum butter or rose-hip jam, that it wasn't punch-key, but punch-key, that they should

be rolled in caster sugar, while still hot, or dusted with powdered sugar, as they cooled.

She had long ago adopted the policy of simply agreeing with whatever customer she was serving,

truly, as she reached for another sheet of wax paper, and filled box after box.

Tradition was important, she knew.

And so let each patron protect their own version of it.

She certainly did stock those heritage flavors, but also had raspberry or strawberry jam filling,

as well as lemon custard and vanilla cream.

She'd grown up saying, punch-key, but let herself be corrected good-naturedly by those

who'd grown up hearing it said some other way.

Most customers had favorites, they secured right away, then filled the rest of the box

with a mix of the other flavors to pass around the office or kitchen.

Occasionally she'd have a punch-key newbie, a first-timer who felt both the weight of an

assortment of options, and a long line at their heels.

She, in fact, had what she called first punch-key-day boxes, which held a selection with each flavor

they sold, as well as a small card with some information about them, and like chocolates

in a sampler, had a diagram printed inside the box, identifying each one.

The newbies often let out a sigh of relief as she handed a box over when they stepped

down to the register with a grateful smile on their faces.

Punch-key-day required a good deal of preparation in order to run smoothly and provide enough

for each patron, who suddenly finding themselves at the front of the line, might be struck with

a surge of generosity and think to themselves, let me also get a dozen for the night shift or

the family next door or the teacher's lounge.

The baker had a system that had been refined over the years.

It involved an ordering process that started the month before, filling and do prep that

required extra staff, and a conveyor belt of bakers, working the friars and piping bags,

and kitchen carts. And heaven forbid, the custards get mixed up with the creams.

At least the jelly-filled donuts showed a dot of the fruit where the nozzle went in to identify them.

And certainly, if they made just a few batches, some brave, self-sacrificing soul would

volunteer to taste one, to identify it. But they would make hundreds of batches, thousands

of pastries. So a strict organizing system involving colored baking paper was adhered to.

By 8.30 in the morning, she heard that the line had reached all the way into the park,

and that some folks were sitting on benches while they waited for it to advance.

The baker blushed when she heard that. The year before, it hadn't gotten that long.

But it seemed that the word was out, and people were coming from farther and farther away

for their pooch keys. She had a number in her head of pastries sold that she was hoping

to hit. She hadn't said it allowed to anyone, just planned for it, believed in it, and would

know when she hit it, or even surpassed it by the wall of ready boxes stacked up along

the coffee station. It had reached to the ceiling when she'd flipped the open sign this morning.

And now, just an hour and a half later, she peeked over her shoulder to see it was only hit

by a pile. The heat from the friars was balanced out by the constant opening of the doors as

customers inched in and others squeezed out. There was a jovial atmosphere on the sidewalk.

As folks made friends, after standing in line so long together, and inside the bakery itself,

there was an ordered chaos as the cash register rang and calls for more napkins and behind

were heard and heated. The baker noticed a commotion outside the window and heard raised voices

and braced herself for a possible low blood sugar-related tantrum or line-cutting scandal. Instead,

she saw the waitress from the diner across the street, ushering a young man in a tie and coat

through the door. It's his first day at work and he wants to bring a couple dozen in to make a good

impression. Make way folks. Let's help him out. He can't be late. We've all been there. People smiled and

made way and the young man nervously adjusted his tie and thanked them as the path cleared.

There are some people in town who can do these types of things. They are known have put in their time

at local spots long enough to be listened to when they raise their voice. The waitress had worked early

mornings and late nights for years and poured coffee for just about every resident of the village

at one point or another. She'd earned the right to make such a call.

She guided the new office worker right over to the baker and told him to

go ahead dear just plan better next time. He swallowed and began to point to various flavors

asking for two of those three of these. The waitress winked at the baker while she packed the boxes

and got a chuckling smile in return as the man carried the boxes to the register

and the line resumed its forward movement. The waitress slipped behind the counter to claim the

diner's own order a rolling cart full of their usual sandwich breads and muffins

as well as wrapped trays of the day's special donuts. She'd roll it straight out the back door

and down the alley to the diner's kitchen. She and the baker were important cogs in this downtown

breakfast machine and today they were showing off how seamlessly it could run.

By the time they would meet for a sandwich this afternoon,

they'd have a few stories to share. The baker would finally say the number she'd had in her head

and how many dozens over it they had sold. The waitress would tell her the young man's name

and how he'd called later from the office to think her. They joked sometimes

that one of them should run for mayor, but that they got more done this way.

Sweet dreams.