From an outsider’s perspective, Team Giraffe must look like quite the odd bunch. Four people, vastly different, brought together for one cause: NamibMills’ annual Bakpro Media Bake-Off.
Typing away into his phone at the speed of light, Barry, looking much younger than his 22 years, seems throughly disinterested in anything and everything that isn’t digital.
Allan is tall and wears an unmissable red shirt. With his slicked-back hair and his timeless shades, you could almost mistake him for a mafia boss. In my head, I call him Joey ‘The Don’ Falcone. Jemima wears butterflies in her hair with the kind of effortless nonchalance that only a cooky scribbler could possess. And then there’s me…
Last Friday morning, my subconscious thought it would be a good idea to convince me to wear red stockings with a black dress. Not that there’s anything wrong with black and red. They go together quite well, I would think. Except when you’re going to a media event and unintentionally look like you’re doing your own version of company colours. Which was only ever cute at primary school athletics events. Like calling ourselves Team Giraffe wasn’t bad enough.
Ever watched an episode of ‘How It’s Made’? I’ve lived one. Wearing a lunch lady-esque hair net that no amount of lipgloss could make sexy and white overalls that remind me of an episode of Grey’s Anatomy, we learnt how the pasta and flour we use in our kitchens every day are made. And after we’d walked and strained our necks and “ooh’ed” and “aaah’ed”, we went back to the Bakpro Training Centre where we were fed and watered.
And then came the baking part. I suppose at this point I should mention that I’m great in the kitchen. I can cook, I can bake, I’m great at following recipes… I hold it down. Or at least so I thought…
Up against teams with names like Ubuntu and Hashtag Fabulous, Team Giraffe scrambled around the kitchen in a flurry of flour, made mistakes, started over, had a bunch of laughs and, at the end of the day, produced a stromboli (an Italian bread filled with cheeses, meats and other fillings) and a good old jam roll.
With sticky dough hands and flour-covered aprons, we stood proudly behind our ‘babies’ and smiled because we had conquered. We had created something tasty from practically nothing. As the judges walked through the room, tasting and critiquing and doing judge-y things, we high-fived each other and sighed tired sighs and felt proud. And after a nail-biting wait, the winners were announced. It wasn’t us. But that’s okay.
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