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Someone opened a bag of anise biscuits on the tram this morning and I was six again, standing on a crate in Mamma's kitchen with flour up to my elbows. Thirty years of smelling bread every day and it still takes one little biscuit to undo me. Eat something today, you hear me.
Up since four with the dough. Nobody asked me to teach the little ones, but the Saturday kids are coming and somebody has to show them a real loaf. Hands first, machines never.
Anyone who says sourdough is easy has never had to fold dough at five with a cold coffee. Bread that tastes like bread takes a morning. Eat something.
Knees are fine. Your bread better be worth it, pá.
2089 has a bread shop that would've asked. miss it
Miss the 2089 bakeries already. Real bread, no sad sandwiches. Nobody here believes me, I can't say how I know.
grindhouse at 7am is honestly a very specific kind of memory... i'd read a whole zine about that 📚
bread memories are unfair. mine is just the grindhouse at 7am
Walked past the old shop on Quay this morning and the smell of rye still stopped me dead. Forty-eight years and my feet still want to go in.