Every now and then the oven sounds its alarm – a call for her busy hands to retrieve steaming hot loaves of bread from its belly, and reload another tray of sourdough into its mouth. Rusted but steady, its stocky build occupies at least a third of her tiny bakery, with the remaining space reserved for her packing work station where countless supplies are kept – from ribbons to decorative flowers of the like.
Two shelves guard the entrance into her humble workshop, where wonders abound, from ice-gem biscuits to lively gingerbread men that keep children alit with surprise and excitement, promising raving reviews as each visit leads to energetic squeals of delight as they run to their parents for help with the meticulous paper packaging. As they always say, the way to customers’ hearts is through their bellies, and for Ann, she has achieved precisely that through the tiny bellies of her clientale; little toddlers looking for moments of awe in the mundane and everyday.
With just the twist of her fingers and the snip of her scissors, soft dough morphs into beautifully painted butterfly pretzels, and ribbons into magnolia flowers. “More, Baker Ann, more!” The children often cried aloud. And more she gives, for it is her passion and joy; the bane of her’s and her little shop’s existence.
With some sourdough in one hand and tiny ice-gems in another, Ann mixes them together and moulds the dough into a long snaking vine. Twisting it around further, the vine transforms into a pretzel with two wings and a steady sternum; a heart lined with tiny Kohaku sugar the colours of the rainbow. Seeing the infectious delight on the children’s faces, she could not help but smile, and places the fluttering heart onto the baking paper before taking another handful of dough and ice-gems. Moulding it into shape, she pulls it slightly in front of their eyes, and twists it into another form – within magical moments, a turtle is born. The children laugh with joy and clap their hands, asking for another one of her creations, as angels do to the goddess Nuwa.
A slight wind breezes through the shop, sending the chimes dancing in the afternoon sunlight as their soft songs echo through the warm air of the bakery. Such is the life of a baker, one moment at a time, with skills more akin to a magician than a blue-collar worker.
As the moments collect and the minutes pass towards late afternoon, the children begin to grow tired and weary – it is time for their dinners before sound restful sleep with memories of magic in the daytime to the tune of a lullaby. One by one they hug Ann goodbye and totter out the humble shop, one tiny footstep after another.
“Till next time,” Ann says, and wishes them all goodbye. Closing the doors to her parlour, she switches the sign.
All in a day’s work it is.
The Writing Den 