Earlier this year, my parents started a small business, a bakery, out of their home. They specialize in pies and sweet bread. My mother is the talent behind the recipes and the actual baking, while my dad does all the bookkeeping and the behind-the-scenes type work. They've done pretty well in their first couple of months, selling their products primarily at the local farmers market.
(As an aside, and I say this because it is the truth and not out of obligation because she is my mother, her pies are really, really good. Everyone that has told me they don't like apple pie, LOVES my mother's apple pie once they try it. The Boss doesn't like blueberries in anything, but she is in love with my mother's blueberry pie.)
Last Friday was the last farmers market of the season, and on Thursday I helped my mother with some of the prep work for the pies. She was making four different types of pies, (blueberry, apple, raspberry, and triple berry [strawberry, blueberry, raspberry]), and I was in charge of measuring out the dry ingredients for each type of pie.
While I was doing so, we talked about the relative success of the business so far, and how they planned on keeping the business going through the fall and winter, now that the farmers market was going to be over. We brainstormed for a little while, and my mother expressed a little bit of doubt in her products.
"Mom!" I chastised. "How many weeks have you sold out of your pies? How many people rave to you about how good they are? How can you doubt that your pies are any good?"
"I know," she said, reluctant to admit it. "I guess I just never thought I'd see this much success."
"This just goes to prove what everyone in the family has been telling you for years."
"Yeah? You really think so?"
"I really do," I said.
"Thanks, Mike," she said, sounding relieved.
I should have stopped there. I really should have. But, I wanted to further compliment her to assure that she knew I hadn't said anything out of obligation. I should have listened to my gut when it told me to Stop Right There, but no.
Me and my big, fat mouth.
Without thinking, I blurted out:
"You are a master baker."
Oh, God, I thought to myself. OH GOD. Did I just say what I think I said? Master baker?
I turned to face the mixing bowls on the counter and began stirring furiously, feeling my face turn hot and red with embarrassment. I really hope she doesn't pick up on the fact that "master baker" sounds an awful lot like "masturbator."
My mother chucked. "Thanks, Mike. I appreciate it."
"No problem," I said.
Heavy, awkward silence ensued.
"So, how about those Red Sox?"