What's your bread?
Insight in odd places
I wish I could say I was writing this from a cafe in Paris, where everything should be written. But I’m not. I am in my hotel room with the window open and my feet propped up on the sill as the warm summer air brushes my face and wisps through my hair. It’s 10:30 pm, but the sky is still a light blue, the sun reluctant to sleep for even just a few hours. I understand his reluctance. There’s an irresistible hum to the city. This isn’t a hum that lulls one to sleep. If it were, I would be sitting in darkness at 10:30 pm because the sun would have long ago resided. Rather, this is a hum that lulls one into rhythm with the city.
As a first-time tourist in Paris, my days and nights have been stuffed with sightseeing and checking off each monumental stop that is a “must-see.” But I want to return to this magical city, get lost in it, and simply flow with the hum.
On my second day here, I took a baking class with my parents in an authentic boulangerie. It didn’t look like anything special from the outside. It was crowded into an alley surrounded by barber shops, other bakeries, cafes, and small businesses. It had a yellowed exterior with chipped paint and some overgrown plants in cracked flower pots. It was hard to find, but we noticed a little old woman with white hair peering her head out the door in search of a lost American family looking for a hidden French bakery. She found us. She was to be the translator for the baker who didn’t know a lick of English. Upon entering the Boulangerie, we were handed aprons and taken to a stuffy little room in the back, warm from the heat of the ovens and the machinery that I didn’t recognize. The baker, a short guy with leathery hands and hair dusted with white, stood in the center of the room with his hands on his hips and his chest puffed out like he was showing off his palace.
As we waited for his words to be translated, I was mesmerized by the richness and passion of his tone. It’s not often that you hear someone speak with such genuine vitality and excitement about what they do after 30 years of it. But each demonstration he gave came with a new sense of wonder in his eyes and voice. He was so proud to show us his craft. He caressed the dough like he was caring for a child, but his hands moved with fluidity, in the same way a musician dances his fingers across a harp. He took our baguettes out of the oven and showed us how to gently rest their hot shells on the tips of our fingers. He signaled us into silence and beamed as he held the bread to his ear and let us hear its first crackle as he pressed against its sides.
“The bread is singing,” the translator whispered.
The baker broke the bread as if he was doing it for the first time and watched us as we watched the steam leave the soft doughy center. He watched us light up as the sweet, sharp aroma hit our noses. And he took pride as we sunk our teeth into the steaming loaves, delighting in the bursting flavor of a simple piece of bread. Delighting in his art, in his life’s work.
Surgeons save lives; teachers educate future generations; reporters keep us informed. This baker makes bread as if it is the most important and beautiful thing in the world. And I don’t doubt that it is. I hope that someday I discover what my bread is. But until then, I suppose I will keep sampling. Maybe finding your bread is a matter of expanding your palate.