Darcy
by KJ Hannah Greenberg
Darcy stared at the crumbs on her plate. Red Velvet Cake had been the first type of dessert that she had sold as a teenager. At fifteen, she had been placing her goods with bakeries, not bake sales.
By seventeen, she had been enrolled in a gastronomy school. By twenty, she had received certification from the American Culinary Federation and had become a cooking school’s pastry educator. For decades, simultaneously with opening a bakeshop, which eventually expanded into a franchise, she had taught thousands of students lamination and chocolate work.
Along the way, she had met and married Max, birthed their sons and daughters, and taken time off to learn at Ecole Ritz Escoffier, in Paris. There, she had improved her preparation of viennoiseries and other haute couture pastries. Darcy’s journey was fulfilling.
At the moment, despite her sixty-five locations, forty years of teaching experience and nomination for the Coupe du Monde de la Boulangerie, Darcy seemed unable to compete as a baking instructor with upstart bakers, i.e. those who had would-be gastronomic stars, many of whom had been her students, and the majority of whom had promised fame and fortune to their enrollees despite the fact that they, themselves, still hadn’t mastered doughs and batters.
An era earlier, no one had competed with her to teach oven temperatures or the proper use of kitchen scales. Her horizon had been clear of parvenus, of amateur confectionaries who cared, to a greater extent, about the hue of their nonpareils than balancing moisture and structure. Certainly, there had been no one in Darcy’s community or in neighboring ones offering her blend of teaching experience and professional skills.
Nonetheless, at present, newbie culinarians give the impression that they were more drawn to promises of celebrity than to any wisdoms undergirding silver-haired folks or to sensibilities earned by mentors lacking full mobility. Apparently, among the young, Instagram-worthy pastries counted beyond proper mixing techniques or understanding when to use particular leavenings.
Darcy sighed, recalling when, at the beginning of her career, she had fashioned piping bags from parchment paper, instead of using Amazon Prime to source them, and when she was gifted with a sourdough starter by a former teacher instead of ordering a questionable one on AliExpress. She doubted that many of the flashy “bakers” posting on YouTube knew what proofing was.
Whereas modern kids represented a fast generation, quality baking continued to be an unhurried occupation. Flavor development required patience, namely, slow and low actualization. Cracked or sunken cakes and burnt edges, ordinarily, resulted from rushing rudimentary processes.
Nevertheless, most of the “epicurean-minded” youngsters that Darcy had met favored spending time with Photoshop over learning how to make croquembouche correctly. Consequently, scores of arrivistes were receiving plenty of school fees, unlike the accomplished purveyor.
That pâtissier was still staring at Red Velvet Cake crumbs when her shop’s bells tinkled. Those Treicheln had been a courting gift from her husband. Like him, they continued to function well.
Vallon Auclair walked in. He looked intently at Darcy’s refrigerated display case. Specifically, he was eyeing a bee sting cake, a treat that had taken Darcy over three hours to craft.
“Hi, Vallon.”
The man shook his head. “If I wanted tasteless, I would’ve bought a mix or patronized one of those bakehouses that spends their resources on lighting engineers and DJ tracks, as opposed to hand-building gingerbread houses or creating Battenberg cakes. What’s with people, these days?”
Darcy said little as she boxed Vallon’s selection. Young persons’ tuition, initially, had provided her outlets’ seed money. Later, those funds validated her art. Conversely, few of today’s youths wanted to discover the secret to making phyllo dough from scratch or invest an entire afternoon in shaping lapis legit.
Surprisingly, concurrent with the “viennoiserie boys and girls” seeking renown, Sonya had insisted on an outmoded apprenticeship. At first, that peer had sought Darcy’s chocolate chip cookies. Thereafter, she had entered the shop, on consecutive days, to buy shortbread biscuits, walnut scones and cream cheese cookie cups.
Finally, on her fifth trip to the store, Sonya had asked Darcy for a few minutes of her time. Holding out a fist full of cash, she asked to become the entrepreneur’s trainee. The trouble was that Sonya used cold ingredients, opened oven doors too early, and almost always ignored directions.
Unlike the fledging adults clamouring for glory on internet-based platforms, that middle-aged woman had sincerely wanted to learn the trade for its own sake as well as to be able to make special treats for her grandchildren. However, rather than graciously accept correction, she argued with Darcy about any identified slip-ups. When Sonya suggested that she end her internship, Darcy had merely nodded.
Vallon looked up after he counted his change. “You know, my sister, Louise, will be visiting all summer. She sweeps, takes out trash, and knows how to make pain au chocolat and boules. Did I ever tell you that our father is a boulanger?”
Darcy smiled in answer.
After Vallon left, her phone chimed its reminder for her to record the latest episode of Sugar Rush. Sometimes, ageing bæceres, too, lean on reality TV to boost their days.
Copyright © 2026 by Channie Greenberg
