I hadn’t realized how much of my days are performed by rote until I broke the pattern by moving last week. I packed my sourdough somewhere and only remembered it days later, suddenly and in a panic. I forgot routine tasks—updating the webstore, sending out invoices—because every Monday morning I sit, or I sat, at the kitchen table by the window and work my way down a list of administrative chores, and without the table, the window, the notebook at my elbow next to the cup of coffee, the majority of them never crossed my mind. Even my days in the bakery were set askew, interrupted by errands and phone calls to the utility company. I managed to both underferment the wheat and overferment the vollkornbrot. On Friday nights the bread is packed and ready to load onto the market trailer, the kitchen sparkling, by 8pm; last night I stumbled out of the kitchen at midnight into a crowd of drunken revelers, with no memory of how I’d spent all those extra hours.
All that to say, some of the bread today is imperfect, and some of it is lovely. Next week I’ll do better.
The Wednesday Birchwood pickup has moved the mile west with us, though I don’t think I’ve updated the webstore with the new address. Maybe I have? I can’t remember.
Owner | Baker
Comments are closed.
All Bakery Dreaming Bicycles Books And Other Stories Bread Without Metaphor Building A Bakery Business Values Changing Seasons Childhood Community Endings Harvest Forage Glean Home Kitchen Sink Philosophy Learning / Teaching Magic And Imagination Opinion Practicalities Starting With The Soil The Body The Commissary The Garden The Sky The World Outside Time Travel Wonder