share it with your man,” Andre said with a knowing smile. “But know you will be sharing a part of your soul with him.”
She trembled a bit, hearing that. She’d already shared parts of her soul with him by divulging her dreams and her past with her parents, but somehow she knew sharing this bread with Evan would be huge and intimate. It would leave her feeling even more vulnerable than she already did.
“Do not overthink love, ma petite,” Andre told her and handed her another ball of dough like it was a queen’s crown. “It is like bread. Keep it simple and do not over-mix or over-knead it. Now, practice. I am going upstairs for a while.” He spoke in smooth French to Fabian and Ronan. The men smiled and nodded at her. “They will keep you company. You do not need to speak French to speak the language of bread. They will advise you if you have questions.”
She looked over at the men and gave them a kind of bow, like she would at the end of a yoga class. Somehow it seemed appropriate.
When he reached the stairs, Andre turned to look at her with that wicked smile of his. “And have fun with the bread, Margie. Always have fun.”
After that, time fell away. She made baguette after baguette. Her early ones took longer to form and showed the marks of a beginner. She was still feeling out the best way to roll the dough into a circle with the heel of her hand. She had the three tucking steps down. The hardest part remained rolling out the dough to look like a woman’s arm. A few of hers looked like a crooked water pipe while another resembled a dog’s leg.
When Andre returned, he hovered near her and eyed her progress. “You are improving, ma petite.”
“I hope you aren’t selling the baguettes I am making,” she said honestly. “I will give your bakery a bad name.”
“No worries, ma petite,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “We will put your loaves in a special basket that says apprentice bread and discount it. If it doesn’t sell, we will give the rest to the neighborhood church. We rarely have bread left at the end of the day, but when we do, either Belle or I walk to the church to give them to Father Charles. He hands the loaves out to the poor who visit their door every night. I cannot abide bread being thrown away. If I could make it for free and still live well, I would. It is not about the money.”
She nodded. “I feel the same way.” She knew how hollow the happiness bought by money felt.
“But money makes the world go around, as they say, and so we play our role,” Andre said. “Now, show me what you have done.”
He critiqued each loaf, noting the unevenness of some of them and a few lazy pinches that would come apart as the bread started to rise. “Remember, ma petite. You must give the bread its structure because once it starts rising again, it will break free of any loose shaping.”
She nodded, and he moved down the row of her baguettes, which Fabian had helped her lay out on baking trays that would eventually go into the oven.
“Your slashing technique is improving as well,” he said. “I would say it’s your best feature so far.”
Picking up the baker’s blade, she made a slashing motion. “I’ve kind of fallen in love with this tool. It’s rather fun.” When she could concentrate on her cinnamon rolls again, she wanted to consider other options besides simply rolling them out and placing them in a pan. What might her imagination inspire her to create?
She and Andre continued to work side by side as she practiced and practiced. When he finally called out for her to stop, satisfied with her progress, she’d made fifty baguettes to her count. Not too shabby.
“Now for the easy part,” he said. “The baking. Come closer to the ovens.”
She stood as close as she felt comfortable. Andre was about a foot closer to them than she was.
“The heat is impressive, no?” he asked. “I use a Winkler oven to bake my beauties. As you can see,
She trembled a bit, hearing that. She’d already shared parts of her soul with him by divulging her dreams and her past with her parents, but somehow she knew sharing this bread with Evan would be huge and intimate. It would leave her feeling even more vulnerable than she already did.
“Do not overthink love, ma petite,” Andre told her and handed her another ball of dough like it was a queen’s crown. “It is like bread. Keep it simple and do not over-mix or over-knead it. Now, practice. I am going upstairs for a while.” He spoke in smooth French to Fabian and Ronan. The men smiled and nodded at her. “They will keep you company. You do not need to speak French to speak the language of bread. They will advise you if you have questions.”
She looked over at the men and gave them a kind of bow, like she would at the end of a yoga class. Somehow it seemed appropriate.
When he reached the stairs, Andre turned to look at her with that wicked smile of his. “And have fun with the bread, Margie. Always have fun.”
After that, time fell away. She made baguette after baguette. Her early ones took longer to form and showed the marks of a beginner. She was still feeling out the best way to roll the dough into a circle with the heel of her hand. She had the three tucking steps down. The hardest part remained rolling out the dough to look like a woman’s arm. A few of hers looked like a crooked water pipe while another resembled a dog’s leg.
When Andre returned, he hovered near her and eyed her progress. “You are improving, ma petite.”
“I hope you aren’t selling the baguettes I am making,” she said honestly. “I will give your bakery a bad name.”
“No worries, ma petite,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “We will put your loaves in a special basket that says apprentice bread and discount it. If it doesn’t sell, we will give the rest to the neighborhood church. We rarely have bread left at the end of the day, but when we do, either Belle or I walk to the church to give them to Father Charles. He hands the loaves out to the poor who visit their door every night. I cannot abide bread being thrown away. If I could make it for free and still live well, I would. It is not about the money.”
She nodded. “I feel the same way.” She knew how hollow the happiness bought by money felt.
“But money makes the world go around, as they say, and so we play our role,” Andre said. “Now, show me what you have done.”
He critiqued each loaf, noting the unevenness of some of them and a few lazy pinches that would come apart as the bread started to rise. “Remember, ma petite. You must give the bread its structure because once it starts rising again, it will break free of any loose shaping.”
She nodded, and he moved down the row of her baguettes, which Fabian had helped her lay out on baking trays that would eventually go into the oven.
“Your slashing technique is improving as well,” he said. “I would say it’s your best feature so far.”
Picking up the baker’s blade, she made a slashing motion. “I’ve kind of fallen in love with this tool. It’s rather fun.” When she could concentrate on her cinnamon rolls again, she wanted to consider other options besides simply rolling them out and placing them in a pan. What might her imagination inspire her to create?
She and Andre continued to work side by side as she practiced and practiced. When he finally called out for her to stop, satisfied with her progress, she’d made fifty baguettes to her count. Not too shabby.
“Now for the easy part,” he said. “The baking. Come closer to the ovens.”
She stood as close as she felt comfortable. Andre was about a foot closer to them than she was.
“The heat is impressive, no?” he asked. “I use a Winkler oven to bake my beauties. As you can see,
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