Speaker 1: The baker who started early. The alarm went off at
Speaker 1: four in the morning, but she was already awake. She
Speaker 1: always was. Something in her body knew the way birds
Speaker 1: know when the sky begins to lighten, long before there
Speaker 1: is any light to see. She lay still for a moment,
Speaker 1: listening to the quiet of the house, and then she
Speaker 1: got up. She dressed in the dark, Pulling on the
Speaker 1: clothes she had laid out the night before, Flower dusted jeans,
Speaker 1: a soft cotton shirt, an apron that had seen so
Speaker 1: much use it had become something warmer, something that belonged
Speaker 1: to her. She tied her hair back, laced her shoes,
Speaker 1: and stepped out into the cool air of early morning.
Speaker 1: The street was empty. The houses on either side were dark,
Speaker 1: their windows blank and sleeping. A single street light glowed
Speaker 1: at the end of the block, casting a pale circle
Speaker 1: on the sidewalk. She walked beneath it and turned the corner,
Speaker 1: her footsteps the only sound on the pavement. The air
Speaker 1: smelled of rain, recent and clean, and somewhere in the
Speaker 1: distance a daub barked once and fell silent. The bakery
Speaker 1: was two blocks away, tucked between a laundromat and a
Speaker 1: hardware store. It had a wooden door painted blue, faded
Speaker 1: now by years of sun and weather, and a window
Speaker 1: that always glowed warm from the inside, lights left on
Speaker 1: through the night. She turned her key in the lock,
Speaker 1: stepped inside, and the warmth of the kitchen in velipides
Speaker 1: like a hug. The ovens had been on a timer
Speaker 1: since three thirty, and the kitchen was already warm, not hot,
Speaker 1: not yet, but warm in that gentle, preliminary way that
Speaker 1: felt like a promise. She moved through the space with
Speaker 1: the ease of long habit, turning on lights, checking the
Speaker 1: temperature gages, pulling the day's ingredients from the shelves and
Speaker 1: the refrigerator. Flour in the large bin, yeese already proofing
Speaker 1: in a bowl of warm water from the night before.
Speaker 1: Butter soft and golden, sitting on the counter where she
Speaker 1: had left it, salt, sugar, milk. She started with the bread.
Speaker 1: It was always the bread first, because bread needed time.
Speaker 1: She measured the flour into the large bowl, two cups,
Speaker 1: then four, then six, the white powers settling in soft mounds.
Speaker 1: She added the yeast mixture the warm water, carrying with
Speaker 1: it that faint, living smell of fermentation, the smell of
Speaker 1: something alive and growing. She stirred it together with her hands,
Speaker 1: feeling the dough begin to form beneath her fingers, rough
Speaker 1: and shaggy at first, then slowly coming together into something smooth.
Speaker 1: She turned the dough out onto the counter, dusted with flour,
Speaker 1: and began to knead. This was her favorite part, the
Speaker 1: rhythm of it, the way her hands knew exactly what
Speaker 1: to do without being told push fold, turn, push fold turn.
Speaker 1: The dough resisted at first, springy and dense, but as
Speaker 1: she worked it it softened, becoming elastic and smooth. Warm
Speaker 1: from the heat of her hands. She closed her eyes
Speaker 1: and felt it the simple, ancient pleasure of making bread,
Speaker 1: the same motion that bakers had used for thousands of
Speaker 1: years in kitchens just like this one, in the quiet
Speaker 1: hours before dawn. The kitchen was a good kitchen. It
Speaker 1: had been here longer than she had, longer than the
Speaker 1: bakery had been a bakery. The counter was thick butcher block,
Speaker 1: scarred and worn smooth by decades of use. The oven
Speaker 1: was old but reliable. The walls were lined with jars
Speaker 1: of spices that caught the light and glowed like jewels.
Speaker 1: It was a kitchen that felt like home, and she
Speaker 1: didn't mind. There were worse places to be than a
Speaker 1: warm kitchen full of the smell of bread. The dough
Speaker 1: rose in its bowl, covered with a cloth, and she
Speaker 1: turned her attention to the pastries croissants. First, she rolled
Speaker 1: out the butter, pounded it flat between sheets of dough,
Speaker 1: folded it over, rolled again, layer upon layer of butter
Speaker 1: and dough, folded until there were dozens of thin sheets
Speaker 1: stacked together, ready to puff in the heat of the
Speaker 1: oven into something golden and flaky. She worked slowly, carefully,
Speaker 1: not rushing. The bread would rise when it was ready,
Speaker 1: the pastries would bake when they were ready. The morning
Speaker 1: would come when it came. She had learned long ago
Speaker 1: that the best baking happened when you gave the dough
Speaker 1: its time. Outside the window above the sink, the sky
Speaker 1: was still dark, but there was a change happening at
Speaker 1: the edges, a faint softening of the black, like ink
Speaker 1: being diluted with water. The street light at the corner
Speaker 1: still glowed, but it seemed less bright, now less alone.
Speaker 1: She could hear the first birds, tentative and questioning, calling
Speaker 1: to each other from somewhere in the trees along the sidewalk,
Speaker 1: one bird, then another, then a third, joining in their
Speaker 1: voices threading together into the first rough melody of the morning.
Speaker 1: She smiled and went back to her croissants. The ovens
Speaker 1: were hot, now truly hot, and she slid the first
Speaker 1: tray of croissants inside. The smell hid her almost immediately,
Speaker 1: that impossible, intoxicating smell of butter and dough turning into
Speaker 1: something greater than the sum of its parts. She inhaled
Speaker 1: deeply and felt the warmth of it fill her chest.
Speaker 1: The ovens hum their low, steady hum, and she set
Speaker 1: a timer and turned back to the bread. The dough
Speaker 1: had risen. It sat in its ball, pillowy and soft.
Speaker 1: She punched it down gently, the air escaping with a
Speaker 1: soft sigh, and turned it out on to the counter.
Speaker 1: She shaped it into loaves, her hands moving with the
Speaker 1: same old rhythm, tucking and smoothing, tucking and smoothing, until
Speaker 1: three perfect loaves sat on the baking sheet, ready for
Speaker 1: the oven. She slid them in beside the croissants and
Speaker 1: closed the heavy door. The kitchen smelled of butter and
Speaker 1: bread and warmth. Flour dusted the counter, the floor, her shirt,
Speaker 1: her hair, the timers ticked softly, counting down the minutes
Speaker 1: until the baking was done. She poured herself a cup
Speaker 1: of tea from the kettle she had set to boil earlier,
Speaker 1: earl gray, strong and hot. She stood by the window
Speaker 1: and drank it slowly, watching the sky continue its slow transformation.
Speaker 1: The birds were singing more confidently, their melodies overlapping into
Speaker 1: something rich and full. The timer dinged. She opened the
Speaker 1: oven and the heat rushed out at her, carrying with
Speaker 1: it the smell of the croissants. They were golden, deeply golden,
Speaker 1: their layers visible like the pages of a book. She
Speaker 1: pulled them out and set them on the cooling rack,
Speaker 1: and they crackled softly as they settled, still hot, still
Speaker 1: alive with the heat of the oven. The bread came
Speaker 1: out next, three loaves, golden brown, their crusts firm and crackling.
Speaker 1: She tapped the bottom of one and heard the hollow
Speaker 1: sound that meant it was done. The inside soft and airy,
Speaker 1: the crust crisp. She set them beside the croissants and
Speaker 1: stood back to admire them. This was her work, This
Speaker 1: was what she made while the world slept, These loaves,
Speaker 1: this bread that would feed people that would sit on
Speaker 1: tables and be torn apart and eaten with butter and jam.
Speaker 1: The sky outside was fully light, now, pale blue and
Speaker 1: pink at the edges, the sun just below the horizon.
Speaker 1: The birds were in full song. She could hear other
Speaker 1: sounds now, the opening of a garage door, the low
Speaker 1: murmur of a neighbor's radio. The neighborhood was waking up, slowly. Gently,
Speaker 1: she arranged the pastries in the display case. She sliced
Speaker 1: a loaf of bread and set it beside a dish
Speaker 1: of butter, ready for whoever came in first. She wiped
Speaker 1: down the counter, swept the flower from the floor, and
Speaker 1: tied on a fresh apron. The blue door opened, and
Speaker 1: the first customer stepped in, shaking the cold from her
Speaker 1: shoulders and smiling at the warmth. She breathed in the
Speaker 1: smell of fresh bread and picked up a croissant, still warm,
Speaker 1: the flaky layers crumbling slightly at her touch. She took
Speaker 1: a bite, and her face softened with pleasure. The baker
Speaker 1: watched her and felt the quiet satisfaction that came with
Speaker 1: this work, the simple rightness of feeding people. The morning
Speaker 1: filled with the sounds of the bakery, the bell on
Speaker 1: the door, the murmur of conversation, the clink of cups,
Speaker 1: the soft rustle of paper bags. People came and went,
Speaker 1: carrying warm bread and sweet pastries, heading back out into
Speaker 1: the lightning day with something good in their hands. But
Speaker 1: for now, in this moment, the baker stood in her
Speaker 1: warm kitchen, with flour on her hands and the smell
Speaker 1: of bread all around her, and she was happy. The
Speaker 1: birds sang outside, the sun climbed higher, and the neighborhood
Speaker 1: woke to the golden smell of her work. The day
Speaker 1: had begun, and she had begun it well