studying the baker’s hands

Dear Amélie,

I’ve been meaning to write this post for a while. Until you came along I haven’t had a reason to do so.

I have always been fascinated by watching people’s hands. Studying the movements that go into practicing a craft. The craftsman’s passion grooved into every wrinkle. Worn from years of repetitive movement. Molded and scarred. The love for what they do transcribed from their heart, as a painter’s vision onto canvass.

Last summer I spent a week at a bakery. Flour dusted floor and the scent of baked yeast brought be back to a time of youth I had nearly forgotten. Your great grandfather was a baker. For hours, through the crack of an old kitchen door I would stare at him as he worked. The smell of marzipan and toasted sesame seeds lingering close. Once a month the kitchen became his laboratory. A rolling cart that he would stroll down to the town square, displaying a collection of stamps and coins he sold to pass the time of his retirement, became the stage for bakery items of all proportions.

Pastries, breads, and holiday confections.

As people passed, hands exchanged a couple of coins with his for sweet morsels of caramel and crusty baguettes. Once a month, he was taken back to his own time nearly forgotten, when a younger man sold baked goods door to door. Flour dusted shoes and dough molded hands.

That one week spent at that tiny bakery I will treasure as one of my most favorite past times. Each morning as the sun rose outside, French men spoke of soccer scores, bad politics and the weather. As I watched, contents from mixing bowls came out of the ovens transformed into substanance for the mind and soul.

I studied the baker’s hands, as they seemed to know what they were doing all on their own, distanced from the rest of the body. Delicately and expertly they moved in gracious strides. Each movement with purpose. No wasted energy.

When we cook I like to keep you near. Watch you as you watch us. I know that you will not remember these days but I hope that subconsciously you are beginning to appreciate the humble act of cooking as a family. The smells that linger beginning to become familiar to you.

The sizzle of a hot skillet startling you into tears makes us laugh each time. As we know that those tears will turn into smiles soon, knowing that dinner is not far away. I want to share stories with you. Together making little memories in our own kitchen. Sharing the secrets of a perfect cupcake.

Your flour dusted hands and chocolate covered cheeks.