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Walking in Paris in January

One Sunday in Paris grayish

clock Saturday evening post
last time I take a good breakfast, my tea hot, my heavenly bread
this ritual zapped 6 days 7 to benefit the race to the subway and breakf
standing at work and then I start to do nothing, watch series
deficient,
Facebooker

so I decided to go walk up to her

object my journey

the great Iron Lady
I am well covered, he did a lil while but not too cool
and I walk
Paris is beautiful, I pass
rue Jean Giraudoux, souvenir
spent hours looking for how to turn phrases memory
spent hours swimming in the madness of Chaillot
spent hours dreaming about stagings of 45, wondering if it is the right time



I continue to walk the cobblestone streets
the Champ de Mars, the darkness begins
everywhere there are tourists who are holding hands and have a photo of
vendors
no, no jveux toureiffelminiature

a little boy who wanders with his parents
"oh it's the same as Vanilla" - he talks about his dog, I guess
her mother "no, Vanilla is bigger, but the same color"
"yes, the same color as her"
father "we do not say it, we say" she "
the son" it is the same color "

I smile, joy
Sunday in the cool darkness of a late to walk

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Hands in the frangipane all day I see
funds quiche, I see sand, I see it turning patties


I Launches almond cream
then another and another


I filled, I place my beans, I dore, I scratch and I start


The Bread Maker I miss the soft dough if tradition

and I wonder why I love this job ... despite
Despite the relentless dishonesty, vulgarity, verbal abuse, despite the disrespect, the rustrisme, errors of French
despite the lack of culture also

they reproach me for talking a lot of baking but it bothers me

I would have clear ideas about my future business
I would launch my products, my pastries, my aromatic breads, sourdough my
I would like to start! I am so excited
so it runs much in my head

and when I see people "normal"
I change my world it's nice

perhaps the Marie-Christine Baker has not (completely ) Marie-Christine erased the girl

yet
yet I return to take the shovel
bakehouse oven
sing and hear the crust of bread.

Masochism.

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Back to clown

With the new year came back red nose
freedom of happiness
red nose red nose





and magic of Thursday night resumed
time to forget what we are for nothing more than a mind in a crazy crazy body
bread stored in its panière the crescents on their stalls. Leaving only the state

clown what a pleasure to return the nose, repeat the check-up before the scene
to feel his whole body just now. without neurons that guide. Just the body is there and then forget what a pleasure to come
whisper words of the public picked at random from the here and now
words everyday and become sublimated poems
words of clowns

yes fun Thursday night is back
those few hours when I am no longer the apprentice baker, when there are more orders, more blame, more baguettes and croissants baked too badly rolled
those few hours where nobody asks me to account, where no one judges me
where there is only the benevolent attention of an audience ready to smile
few hours of happiness
stolen moments of happiness

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Celebrations ...

Everyone is on vacation, everybody goes shopping, Christmas markets fragrant mulled wine
Garlands in the streets, garland hearts.

And then there are bakers.
The baker, between excitation into anxiety. Celebrations ... or sales of the year.
The day you've never kneaded rye as the day's papers command invade the walls of the lab, the day where you run from noon on the day when the oven is never empty .
The day the customers are lining up behind the shop 50m, the day we launched 3 more mixers tradition, the day the baskets are hardly fulfilled already empty and the much awaited respite yet shifted.
is the day that everything moves, where nothing stops.

The day when one wants his bed, where it is better not to think about sleeping comrades,
but also a breath of excitement, feel part of a great adventure where each is useful, where everyone is needed. The day the client MUST leave his happy with his rye rye rye
his (the client eat too many oysters, you say you)

The day we head for tens of hours without even report,
where you were going home completely washed

is the 24th.
Then the week is crazy.
(well, where I work is particular: FOUR neighboring bakeries are closed!)
Every day is like Saturday.
Pfouh.

And now we know, the worst happens. The
31.
death.
You say that the neighborhood was concerted.
you do not understand why people do not make their bread at home (yes bin?)
then you immediately regret this thought

you dream a moment in the day when you entrepreneur
you imagine these days of 24 and 31 where the cash drawer does not even have time to close between two clients.
and then you say that Christmas is good, anyway.

Moments of sweet illusions.

Then your boss wakes you up.
It's not over.
patties. You fart
weights.