Holding the Temper

Bill set the double boiler on the stove and watched the water begin to simmer. Saturday morning, and he was tempering chocolate because his daughter asked him to make truffles for Christmas. She was turning twelve.

The dark chocolate went into the bowl. Good couverture chocolate, 54.5% cacao. He stirred as it melted, the solid pieces surrendering to heat, losing their form. Everything that had made it chocolate—the shine, the structure, the snap—gone.

His phone buzzed. Another text from Gerald. "Check your voicemail". He wiped some chocolate off his hands, swiped his phone open, and played the voicemail. “Hey buddy, check your email.”

Bill sighed as he followed the breadcrumb trail. He knew what he'd find. For weeks, leadership had been softening the ground for their retreat from the restructuring plan. They'd reframe it, of course, not as abandonment but as "strategic realignment" or "phased implementation." The corporate vocabulary was always ready with terms that could disguise a backward step as forward motion. Another "temporary adjustment" that would become permanent, wrapped in language about client-centricity and team optimization.

Bill scanned the email. The plan got neutered. Leadership misfits would be reassigned. A few mid-level managers would swap titles, some departments would be renamed. Window dressing. The email cited "client concerns" as reasons to avoid any real disruption.

The chocolate was fully melted now, a dark glossy pool. He turned off the heat, lifted the bowl from the double-boiler, and put the bowl on the granite counter. This was the part that’s easy to get wrong. Not preparing, not thinking through the details, or getting impatient.

Bill checked the thermometer. Still hot. He needed to get it down to 80 degrees, then gently reheat back up to 90. The window was narrow, and if he tried to skip steps, if he pulled it off the heat too soon or put it back too fast, he'd end up with something that never quite set right.

95 degrees. He grabbed a handful of chocolate chips and dropped them into the bowl. They floated on the surface, dark islands in a darker sea.

This was the seeding. The stable crystals would encourage the melted chocolate to form the right structure as it cooled. But only if he was patient enough to let it work. He stirred slowly, watching the chips soften and disappear into the mass. He occasionally moved the bowl to cooler granite. 88 degrees. 86. 85.

Gerald had called him into his office on Friday. "I'm hearing concerns," Gerald said. "People are worried about the transition. They think they'll hurt client revenue if we're restructuring now."

"We accounted for that," Bill said. "The projections show a dip in Q4, recovery by Q2. But if we don't do it now, we're looking at the same inefficiencies for another year."

"What if we phase it? We can't afford the chaos right now."

They were navel-gazing, Bill had thought. There was no way around the short-term chaos. That was the point. You had to break down the old structure completely before you could build the new one. Trying to bridge between them just meant operating in two modes at once.

82 degrees. Close now. Bill added a few more chips. The chocolate thickened slightly, began to hold its shape on the spoon. This was the moment, the delicate balance between too fluid and too solid, between chaos and premature order.

His daughter appeared in the doorway, sleep-creased and curious.

"Is it working?" she asked.

"Getting there," Bill said. "You have to be patient with it."

"What happens if you mess up?"

"It blooms. Gets streaky and gray. Still tastes fine, but it doesn't look right. Doesn't have the snap."

She watched him stir. "Can you fix it?"

"You can melt it and start over. But you lose time."

She nodded and wandered back upstairs.

Bill checked the temperature. 80 degrees. Perfect. Now the tricky part, bringing it back up without going too far.

He set the bowl back over the hot water, just for seconds at a time, stirring constantly. 81 degrees. 84. 87. The chocolate moved differently now, more viscous, more controlled. He could feel the structure forming. At least that's what he thought. It could spike to 92 in an instant and ruin everything.

Come Monday, the company would roll out the deck chair rearrangement. "Realignment" included a rearrangement of boxes on the org chart, some new business cards, and an untouched foundation.

On Zoom, poker faces are easy. But he knew that in private Slack channels, frustration would pour out. They all knew the clock was ticking. The same problems would resurface soon. The inefficiencies would multiply like compound interest. Then would come the familiar, tone-deaf cycle: expensive consultants with sleek, but far from novel recommendations that would wither under the first hint of resistance, and ultimately, another retreat disguised as progress.

90 degrees. He lifted the bowl off the heat. This was the moment when you had to trust the process. He dipped an offset spatula into the chocolate and spread it on some wax paper. If he'd done it right, it would set in a few minutes with a glossy finish and a clean snap.

If he'd failed, it would stay soft, or worse, set with a gray bloom across the surface.

He watched. Waited. Looked at the thermometer on the counter to see if the room had gotten too warm. The chocolate streak began to lose its shine, just slightly, as it cooled. The surface dulled, then…there…brightened again. The proper crystals were forming. The structure was holding.

Bill let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

The phone buzzed again. He picked it up this time. Gerald's email. "Board approved the revised approach. Appreciate your understanding. Let's connect Monday to discuss rollout."

Bill set the phone down and pulled the chocolate off the paper. It had set completely now. He snapped it in half. Good break, clean edge, good shine.

He began spooning the tempered chocolate into a piping bag. The chocolate filled the molds, glossy and dark. The hard part of the truffles was complete. Monday would come, and Bill would show up and execute the new plan.

He held the bowl over the hot water again, just for a moment, keeping the chocolate in temper. Maintaining the balance. Both were imposters. The work was the work.

Maybe Monday would surprise him.

But probably not.

Bill filled another mold. Still in temper.