The story of the baker
I spent the afternoon with the village baker yesterday. I’ve been visiting him quite often lately, watching him make gingerbread men, bears and beasts and eating some along the way.
He is a burly man, tanned with the flame of his oven and hiding half of his face with a dark beard. Wearing his black Belstaff boots, you’d expect to find him breaking necks or chopping meat with an axe but instead, he subsists in his small kitchen, handling dough as if it was his 80 year old mother, and icing eyes, noses and smiles on his gingerbreads. The palm of his hand is so big mine would get lost in it.
His voice is a bit too soft for his stance; he has fallen into a habit of telling me stories about the man, bear or beast he would be working on, even though he knows I am not listening to him but rather, to the crackling sound of the cookie in my mouth while tasting cinnamon and ginger. The only time he would be quiet would be when he is icing the cookies, then, he would bend close to the biscuit, tall man as he is, and draw a face for each one.
I would try to sit as still as possible on the wooden stool in my white Chloe dress during this time but you know, it’s not always easy for me and so I have eaten more than a few cookies with disfigured eyes or smiles. Once he would finish the gingerbreads, he would place the tray on the windowsill that leads to the street for the villagers to take. He would forget about them the minute they were placed there, pacing back to his work bench to start a new batch with new stories all over again.
He is always in his bakery; no matter the time there is always a light in there. You will barely find a speck of flour on his clothes, whereas I, well, let’s say you would assume I was the baker.
Story credits: Vogue Russia.