it’s a gas oven. I’m old fashioned this way. I like having the hint of fire bake my bread. What kind did you buy?”
“I have a Bodgette I inherited from the former owner. It still works beautifully. I used it to bake cinnamon rolls with the former owner before she handed the keys over to me.”
“It is a good brand, I think,” Andre said, “and how nice that you did not have to pay for it yourself, although I’m sure the equipment was included in the price of the bakery.”
“It was,” she said, thinking back to what a dance she’d had to do to make it all work. She and Grandma Kemstead had itemized all the equipment in the store, and Margie had chosen what she wanted to keep. “The bread slicer I inherited goes back to the 40s, and it’s still in top shape. There’s a man in town who’s been sharpening the blades for forty years.” And now he would sharpen the blades for her.
Whenever she thought about continuing the special legacy begun by Grandma Kemstead, she got teary-eyed. After walking away from the legacy her parents had tried to force on her, she’d never expected it would make her this happy to find a connection to something that spanned the generations.
“Good equipment can last forever with the proper care,” Andre said. “So, after all the shaping, it’s pretty simple to bake the bread. We just pop the trays inside. At this point, they don’t need to rise much. The dough has already reached its apex, so to speak. The heat takes it home. Would you like to do the honors? They’re your baguettes.”
“I’d love to,” she said and picked the first of the three heavy trays she’d filled with her baguettes.
“You are stronger than you look,” Andre commented as he opened the oven door for her.
“I added extra weights to my routine when I decided to buy the bakery.” Not that she’d been doing much working out lately. She hadn’t the time.
The heat was intense on her face as she slid in the first tray and then followed suit with the next two. Andre shut the door and gave her an impromptu hug. Fabian and Ronan clapped, interrupting the cleanup they were doing near a small sink next to the stairs.
“You have made your first magic in Paris, Margie,” Andre said. “I feel like a proud papa. Oh, I will teach you so many things. Now, we will let the bread bake. Come upstairs with me. We have some champagne in the refrigerator. Belle insists on keeping it. We must celebrate.”
“Ah…maybe we should wait to taste my baguettes before we celebrate,” she said.
“Nonsense,” Andre said, leading her to the stairs. “You are using my dough. They will be perfect. Now, when you make your own dough…”
She saw where he was going with this. “It’s going to take practice,” she said and almost winced, wondering how much. But it was exciting too. She was learning how to make baguettes in Paris with a master baker. She needed to kick her perfectionism to the curb and enjoy this.
“You will get it right, with practice and my fine instruction,” he said with a laugh. “After all, you will be using my recipe. And it’s perfect, no? The angels weep when they eat my bread. Jesus himself might have—”
“I get it,” she said, climbing the steep stairs. “You’re a regular saintly baker.”
“There is already a Saint Andre,” he teased when they reached the top. “But I will figure something out to ensure I leave a legacy.”
“I have no doubt.”
Andre called out to Fabian and Ronan, and they climbed the stairs as well. In the small back room of the bakery’s first floor, Andre produced a bottle of champagne. His wife came through the swinging door with a huge smile.
“Success!” she said and hugged Margie. “There is no better feeling.”
“No, there truly isn’t,” Margie answered, accepting a glass of champagne.
Once everyone had a glass, Andre raised his to her. “To Margie from America. May she learn to bake bread like a Frenchman.”
“French
“I have a Bodgette I inherited from the former owner. It still works beautifully. I used it to bake cinnamon rolls with the former owner before she handed the keys over to me.”
“It is a good brand, I think,” Andre said, “and how nice that you did not have to pay for it yourself, although I’m sure the equipment was included in the price of the bakery.”
“It was,” she said, thinking back to what a dance she’d had to do to make it all work. She and Grandma Kemstead had itemized all the equipment in the store, and Margie had chosen what she wanted to keep. “The bread slicer I inherited goes back to the 40s, and it’s still in top shape. There’s a man in town who’s been sharpening the blades for forty years.” And now he would sharpen the blades for her.
Whenever she thought about continuing the special legacy begun by Grandma Kemstead, she got teary-eyed. After walking away from the legacy her parents had tried to force on her, she’d never expected it would make her this happy to find a connection to something that spanned the generations.
“Good equipment can last forever with the proper care,” Andre said. “So, after all the shaping, it’s pretty simple to bake the bread. We just pop the trays inside. At this point, they don’t need to rise much. The dough has already reached its apex, so to speak. The heat takes it home. Would you like to do the honors? They’re your baguettes.”
“I’d love to,” she said and picked the first of the three heavy trays she’d filled with her baguettes.
“You are stronger than you look,” Andre commented as he opened the oven door for her.
“I added extra weights to my routine when I decided to buy the bakery.” Not that she’d been doing much working out lately. She hadn’t the time.
The heat was intense on her face as she slid in the first tray and then followed suit with the next two. Andre shut the door and gave her an impromptu hug. Fabian and Ronan clapped, interrupting the cleanup they were doing near a small sink next to the stairs.
“You have made your first magic in Paris, Margie,” Andre said. “I feel like a proud papa. Oh, I will teach you so many things. Now, we will let the bread bake. Come upstairs with me. We have some champagne in the refrigerator. Belle insists on keeping it. We must celebrate.”
“Ah…maybe we should wait to taste my baguettes before we celebrate,” she said.
“Nonsense,” Andre said, leading her to the stairs. “You are using my dough. They will be perfect. Now, when you make your own dough…”
She saw where he was going with this. “It’s going to take practice,” she said and almost winced, wondering how much. But it was exciting too. She was learning how to make baguettes in Paris with a master baker. She needed to kick her perfectionism to the curb and enjoy this.
“You will get it right, with practice and my fine instruction,” he said with a laugh. “After all, you will be using my recipe. And it’s perfect, no? The angels weep when they eat my bread. Jesus himself might have—”
“I get it,” she said, climbing the steep stairs. “You’re a regular saintly baker.”
“There is already a Saint Andre,” he teased when they reached the top. “But I will figure something out to ensure I leave a legacy.”
“I have no doubt.”
Andre called out to Fabian and Ronan, and they climbed the stairs as well. In the small back room of the bakery’s first floor, Andre produced a bottle of champagne. His wife came through the swinging door with a huge smile.
“Success!” she said and hugged Margie. “There is no better feeling.”
“No, there truly isn’t,” Margie answered, accepting a glass of champagne.
Once everyone had a glass, Andre raised his to her. “To Margie from America. May she learn to bake bread like a Frenchman.”
“French
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