There’s a certain weight to mornings that start long before anyone else is up. I used to set my alarm for 1.40 in the morning. The last sounds from the street, someone laughing as they came home, and there I was, crawling out of bed while my cat found the warm spot I’d just left. It always felt like a secret, sneaking out in the dark, slipping into old jeans and pulling my hat down over my hair, trying not to wake anyone else in the house. Out on the road, the mist hugged the ground, the bakery lights the only sign of life for blocks.
It’s a quiet job most days. There are hours when the only conversation is the clatter of trays and the hum of the ovens. If you have a mate on shift, you move around each other with hardly a word. Most mornings I’d just let my hands do the work. You settle into a rhythm, dough rising, bread going in, croissants lining up for the oven. Sometimes there’s comfort in the routine. Other days, you notice the ache, the tiredness that settles in your bones, the odd feeling of living at a different pace than everyone else. I worried I’d oversleep and ruin the bread. I learned to accept the lack of sleep, knowing you’re lucky if you get a few hours before the sun is up.
Finishing before the world wakes is a kind of gift, but there’s a cost. I’d drive home with the first sunlight creeping in, carry a loaf through the door, and climb back under the doona just as the city was starting its day. It can feel peaceful. Or it can feel lonely, being the only one who remembers what the world looks like before dawn, the only one who knows how the kitchen smells when the first batch comes out of the oven. But oh well, just a day in a life of a baker.