Aw! Thank you Theresa! Bun making and eating is such a wholesome experience. I like the repetition as the dough needs to go through the kneading and the proofing. Your writing reminds me of the process.
Largest mushroom cap scones ready to be picked up rolled out one by two dusty flowers paste to set down in a pot braise in herbal oil to a golden tan and once cool even on a sweltering summer day sip à cool drink and devour your favorite fruit worth every scent that comes to a breeze.
In the warm, heavy glow of the bakery kitchen, where the air was thick with the sour, fermented tang of live yeast and the dry, chalky dust of stone-ground flour, Mr. Alvarez had a ritual. Every evening at closing time, he saved the smallest, most stubborn little scraps of dough - the ones left clinging to the bottom of the wooden mixing troughs - and turned them into something magical.
Tonight, young Leo was helping for the first time. The nineteen-year-old had shown up two weeks ago looking nervous in his borrowed gray uniform, hairnet slightly crooked, desperate for a summer job. He was quiet, all elbows and apologies, but he moved with careful hands.
“These ones,” Mr. Alvarez said, sliding a heavy, blackened steel tray of blistering, wood-fired bites toward Leo. “They’re the special ones. Too shy for the front glass. They need the heat to bring out their grit.”
Leo raised an eyebrow but took one anyway. It was still fiercely hot, dusted with coarse cinnamon sugar that rasped against his fingertips. He popped it in his mouth and his whole face changed - his eyes widening as the rich, caramelized crust gave way to a pillowy, steaming center.
Mr. Alvarez chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated alongside the low thrum of the ovens. “My wife used to say the best things in life are the ones nobody fights over. The quiet ones.”
They worked side by side in easy silence. The older man - whose hands were calloused and mapped with faint white burn scars from sixty years of tending the fire - showed Leo how to cup his palms, feeling the elastic pull and resistance of the grain as they shaped the final scraps. Leo’s shoulders slowly relaxed. For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t thinking about college applications or the sharp, echoing arguments in his parents’ living room. He was just here, flour caked on his forearms, surrounded by the rhythmic scrape of wooden benches and the steady, grounding heat radiating from the brickwork.
When the last dough ball was shaped, Mr. Alvarez wiped his flour-dusted hands on his rough canvas apron and offered Leo a small brown paper bag tied with a twist of coarse hemp twine.
“For your walk home,” he said. “Tell your mom the quiet ones are the best. She’ll understand.”
Leo looked down at the heavy little bag, then back at the old chef whose eyes crinkled with decades of kindness. For a moment, the vast, industrial kitchen felt smaller. Warmer. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d found more than a summer job.
He smiled - small, crooked, and real.
“Thanks, Chef.”
Mr. Alvarez winked, reaching for the heavy iron latch of the main oven. “See you tomorrow, kid. We’ve got more quiet ones to save.”
“Louie,” said Philippe in a stage whisper. “Do you think the boss has overdone it on this order?”
Louie looked down the table at all the buns they had made. “Don’t rightly know. Haven’t given it too much thought since we started. The dead line is approaching quickly,” he said with a glance at the clock.
Philippe smiled. “We are getting paid either way.” He thought for a minute. “I’m just wondering why he wants all these,” he said waving his arm at the table after he put the latest pastry down, “in his office by five.”
“Why do you care?”
“I’m just curious. Is he having some sort of party there at five?”
“Maybe he is just hungry.”
Philippe looked incredulous before laughing. “Could be. He looks like he could.”
At five pm the buns were covering every inch of the bosses office.
“Thanks boys,” the boss said as he handed them an extra 50. “For being on time,” he said with a touch of joy as he closed his door.
“Time to start Arnold,” he said to his bulldog. “Tuck in.”
What joy to be a baker
Eggs, flour, and water maker
Putting fingers in the dough
Getting messy but so
Wonderful to create buns
Step up and get you some
Eating biscuits with honey
Better than making money
Flour with add ins makes magic
Not having tasted one is tragic
Of course it adds on pounds
But sometimes it's worth getting round
What joy to be a baker
Creating goodness for any taker
To indulge and dig right in
One or two would not be a sin
I think i might want to bake
Some biscuits to partake
In the abiding joy
Of baking for good girls and boys
Thank you, Writer Pilgrim!
Thank you, Richbee !
Thank you, Caro!
Thank you , Marpy !
Thank you, Bill !
Aw! Thank you Theresa! Bun making and eating is such a wholesome experience. I like the repetition as the dough needs to go through the kneading and the proofing. Your writing reminds me of the process.
Largest mushroom cap scones ready to be picked up rolled out one by two dusty flowers paste to set down in a pot braise in herbal oil to a golden tan and once cool even on a sweltering summer day sip à cool drink and devour your favorite fruit worth every scent that comes to a breeze.
Thank you Richbee! The writing juices are flowing here. Knead of consciousness!
The Last Batch of the Day
In the warm, heavy glow of the bakery kitchen, where the air was thick with the sour, fermented tang of live yeast and the dry, chalky dust of stone-ground flour, Mr. Alvarez had a ritual. Every evening at closing time, he saved the smallest, most stubborn little scraps of dough - the ones left clinging to the bottom of the wooden mixing troughs - and turned them into something magical.
Tonight, young Leo was helping for the first time. The nineteen-year-old had shown up two weeks ago looking nervous in his borrowed gray uniform, hairnet slightly crooked, desperate for a summer job. He was quiet, all elbows and apologies, but he moved with careful hands.
“These ones,” Mr. Alvarez said, sliding a heavy, blackened steel tray of blistering, wood-fired bites toward Leo. “They’re the special ones. Too shy for the front glass. They need the heat to bring out their grit.”
Leo raised an eyebrow but took one anyway. It was still fiercely hot, dusted with coarse cinnamon sugar that rasped against his fingertips. He popped it in his mouth and his whole face changed - his eyes widening as the rich, caramelized crust gave way to a pillowy, steaming center.
Mr. Alvarez chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated alongside the low thrum of the ovens. “My wife used to say the best things in life are the ones nobody fights over. The quiet ones.”
They worked side by side in easy silence. The older man - whose hands were calloused and mapped with faint white burn scars from sixty years of tending the fire - showed Leo how to cup his palms, feeling the elastic pull and resistance of the grain as they shaped the final scraps. Leo’s shoulders slowly relaxed. For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t thinking about college applications or the sharp, echoing arguments in his parents’ living room. He was just here, flour caked on his forearms, surrounded by the rhythmic scrape of wooden benches and the steady, grounding heat radiating from the brickwork.
When the last dough ball was shaped, Mr. Alvarez wiped his flour-dusted hands on his rough canvas apron and offered Leo a small brown paper bag tied with a twist of coarse hemp twine.
“For your walk home,” he said. “Tell your mom the quiet ones are the best. She’ll understand.”
Leo looked down at the heavy little bag, then back at the old chef whose eyes crinkled with decades of kindness. For a moment, the vast, industrial kitchen felt smaller. Warmer. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d found more than a summer job.
He smiled - small, crooked, and real.
“Thanks, Chef.”
Mr. Alvarez winked, reaching for the heavy iron latch of the main oven. “See you tomorrow, kid. We’ve got more quiet ones to save.”
Mysterious quiet ones! Marpy, this is a wonderful story. Full of warmth, sentiment and kindness.
How Many Buns?
“Louie,” said Philippe in a stage whisper. “Do you think the boss has overdone it on this order?”
Louie looked down the table at all the buns they had made. “Don’t rightly know. Haven’t given it too much thought since we started. The dead line is approaching quickly,” he said with a glance at the clock.
Philippe smiled. “We are getting paid either way.” He thought for a minute. “I’m just wondering why he wants all these,” he said waving his arm at the table after he put the latest pastry down, “in his office by five.”
“Why do you care?”
“I’m just curious. Is he having some sort of party there at five?”
“Maybe he is just hungry.”
Philippe looked incredulous before laughing. “Could be. He looks like he could.”
At five pm the buns were covering every inch of the bosses office.
“Thanks boys,” the boss said as he handed them an extra 50. “For being on time,” he said with a touch of joy as he closed his door.
“Time to start Arnold,” he said to his bulldog. “Tuck in.”
Arnold sniffed happily.
Arnold and the buns! What a generous boss! Heartwarming story! Loved this Bill! Thank you!