An ode to Sol Sapadin, my mentor

The Baker by Karolyne Sapadin

He’s throwing in his apron, white pants and powdery cap. 

No more kettles, ovens and shelleping those wire racks. No more out before the dawn, dragging a body and one more yawn. No more secret recipes for kettles to boil. 

What will it be, let me see, banana, nut, zucchini? Or maybe jalepeni?

He can remember, way back when the bakeries were in the cellars and deep dark dens and oh, how the hands did toll.

The hands pushed and pressed and twisted some more, ‘till the knuckles were swell and sore.

Bagels flew in the air one by one, while the hands twisted and turned some more. Now the dream of the machine is here, the hopper drops them out’ by hundreds and more.

He’s baked all over, counties Nassau, Brooklyn, and Queens, worked near bridges, under elevators and small holes in the wall.

Coffee, coffee to stop half awake dreams. His hours are around the clock and bagels flew non-stop. 

So say good-bye to bagels and bialy-stock garlic, poppy, onions and bunions. Don’t forget the fancies please, cinnamon, raisin, and chocolate chippers, Some yeast, malt and flour dippers. 

So where do you think he’ll spend his time?

With his one and only love of forty-three years, his wife, Karolyne.    

                                               An ode to Sol Sapadin, my mentor                                                                                             Jerry Rosner                                                                                                                  Owner, Bagel Boss