may not bring wisdom, but it does bring experience--like the experience required to get through an 11-hour day on less than four hours of sleep. I should feel WAY worse than I do; go figure. (Especially since, along with the beer, I inhaled about a half a pack of cigarettes worth of second-hand smoke; blegh.) And lots of intense conversations, last night and today.
But I'd rather bitch about NP. Yesterday I'm cutting up my dough into 12-pound pieces (usually with about 3 extra ounces per piece), and I came up 6 or 7 pounds short. NP had made that batch of dough on Monday (because I don't work on Mondays), so I asked her how much dead dough she'd used ("dead dough" being the scraps from a given day's production; about 3 or 4 pounds gets thrown into each night's 96-pound batch). Four pounds, she said, like Bossman had instructed. So I said, to her and Bossman simultaneously, I'm about 6 or 7 pounds short. Bossman asks if I'd tasted it; did it have sugar in it? I handed him a little taste and he said, yup, that's what's missing. NP had left out the 7 pounds of sugar. Bossman had me make a 24-pound batch, with the extra 7 pounds of sugar in it, and then mix in the batch that NP had made. It worked, more or less; it was ragged, but useable, and I wasn't completely screwed for the week's production.
However.
NP didn't ever apologize for fucking it up. She was completely uninterested in finding the solution or in doing anything about it. And she never once offered to lend me a hand, even though her fuckup added an extra hour to my day. I noted to Bossman, after NP had left, that it would have been the thing to do. He replied that he's running out of patience with her, that she's just not getting any better. I think he keeps hoping she'll quit, but I think he's going to have to cut her hours (such as they are) or fire her outright. It's his bakery, and he's got more experience with this shit than I do, but she's getting on my last goddamned nerve.
2 comments:
How irritating!
It reminds me of a term my colleague termed recently about an editor not doing thorough work. She called it a "get it off my desk contest".
I made corn sticks (corn bread in ear-of-corn-shaped impressions in the pan) the other day, from a mix. It was only after I filled a dozen compartments in the pan that I saw the egg sitting on the counter. Scraped the batter back into the bowl, mixed in the egg, and refilled the pan. Messy work. But nobody else had to fix my problem for me. (And I have not been hired to work at a bakery!)
They didn't even taste that good after all the hassle. (Sigh.)
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