His mindset was still heavy when he unlocked the door to the workshop, his favorite place in the universe to be, and persisted well into starting up the late model iMac that served as Manleigh Cheese’s communications hub. He leaned over the wireless keyboard and stared at the icons forming on the screen. The little images were far perkier than he felt.
The notepad beside the iMac mouse listed the things they needed to accomplish before the big event. Make lots of bacon. Create parfaits. Ice and garnish the “Bitch Set Me Up” cupcakes. It was a pretty manageable list, all things considered.
He estimated, based on a little internet research, that there were less than fifty interns to feed. Working with that number, they needed to have enough food for one hundred people: eight dozen of each dessert, and enough material to make a hundred of each of their signature menu items.
“Jesus!” Logan exclaimed. “Dough for the Political Puffs!”
The closest pen was pressed into service to frantically scribble down the thing that Logan had forgotten until that moment. Three hundred slices of bacon was one thing, but making enough dough for six hundred cheesy balls was another thing entirely.
John and Donna would kill him for forgetting about the puffs, he told himself.
A few minutes later, John came through the door, looking sane, and reasonably caffeinated. He immediately noticed the sheepish expression on his business partner’s face, and knew that something had gone awry.
“What is it?”
“I shouldn’t have given you the day off yesterday. I forgot we need to make dough for the puffs—about six hundred of them.” Logan answered.
“Ah. Did you guys get the veggies and fruit prepped yesterday?”
“Good. How are we set for hard cheese, bread, and soft cheese supplies?”
Logan quickly calculated the contents of the cold storage area and his cellar below the metal building.
“We could do this event three times over and still have extra cheese.” He announced it with no small amount of relief in his voice.
“Good.” John closed his eyes, lifted his head slightly, and started naming ingredients for every item on the menu. It sounded like some sort of chant for Buddhist grocers. “We can do this… as long as we cut the bread and cheese as people place their orders… otherwise, we’ll be working all night.”
“That sounds reasonable.” Logan nodded, thanking god that John was the master of logistics and practicality.
“So, once Donna gets there, I want the two of you dealing with the Merry-in-Berry parfaits. I’ll make the dough and get it into the fridge. After that, I’ll make the icing for the cupcakes, and start smearing them with chocolate goodness.”
“Okay!” Logan was getting eager. John made everything sound so approachable and sane.
“When the parfaits are finished, I’ll probably have most of the cupcakes done. You or Donna can sift powdered sugar on them. They’ll move to the fridge. The last thing we’ll do is the bacon. Do we have enough?”
“I asked Donny at Lost-My-Shirt Farms to Federal Express thirty pounds. It should arrive any minute.”
“Good.” John’s eyes snapped open. “We’re taking the tarts off the menu for tomorrow.”
“We forgot about the Chunky Momma tarts, too. We do not have time to cope with those and everything else.”
“Shit.” Logan swore.