Early morning. The lights flicker on in the bakery and the hum of the neon fills the empty air.
The oven silent, responds to the old lever switch, a clack and the ferris wheel begins to turn inside, heat already erupting out, warming the room, bringing life into my still sleepy form.
Retrieve a huge steel bowl from under the hard wood table with it's steel pipe legs, bolted to the floor and pull the bins from under the side board counter. I let the scoop bring up flour, so full of the scent of fresh ground wheat, bring down a can of gluten to bulk it up and the cracked grain from the walk in refrigerator. There is the secret sour sponge hiding behind the rye emulsion and I snake it out, no one's watching, I'm alone, but I still feel like a magician guarding his secret magic from prying eyes.
That sour, built of old bread dough, vinegar and scraps from last weeks puff pastry, goes in to the bowl and I work it all into a bubbling rue. Then I bring out the cakes of yeast. How I love the smell and a big brass colored can of egg yolk and another of whey and buttermilk. One last turn with a big wooden spoon and I carry it all to the mixer, pour it in crank it up to the dough hook and watch the slow turn, adding more bread flour and shake or two of salt as the metal bites through the dough and forms it into a final ball.
Carry the heavy bowl to the table dashed with flour and empty the contents. Yes, the oven is hot now, and I cut, weigh and kneed the dough into balls, give each a final pat and toss it on the baking sheet. Three sheets of hearth bread ready to go are set in the proof box.
While I wait, I pour my first cup of coffee and drag out the cookie dough from the ice box. A greased spoon cuts through the oatmeal raison dough I made the night before and I pop in one pan after another. And, ah, the scent is soon cinnamon and raison and oatmeal. By the time I pull them out and begin to slide the bread pans in their place the place is rosy warm and filled with those sweet scent, all to be over powered by the lucious aroma of bread baking.
I turn on the lights in the bakery shop window and place the first cookies out. A few more minutes and the jangle of the door bell will announce the early bird customer evenas the first rainbow red streaks crisscross the morning sky. This is the best time of the day. Those few minutes before you have to race back to work, turning out orders and the elements of fresh baked bread permeating the air, the still warm cookies behind the glass and the richness of coffee as you sneak one for yourself. If heaven isn't like this, I don't know why I'd even want to go there.
Bronze trophy winner
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