of celibacy, n’est-ce pas?”
“I agree,” she said, laughing fully now. Confession, sin, and now monks. France had a long, colorful history. “I’ll have to share your view with a friend of mine.”
Evan would find the story amusing after his recent celibacy kick. Goosebumps suddenly rolled across her skin as she thought about them coming together as lovers. Would it be tonight? She hoped it would be tonight. Already, her insides felt like over-risen bread loaves, ready to explode, needing heat for completion.
“You are not here, ma petite,” Andre said. “Come rejoin me. You must be present to make magic.”
“I’m sorry.” She shook herself. “Please continue.”
“Brian must have shown you how he learned to make bread, but everyone makes it differently, even when they use the same recipe.”
She nodded. “I know. Even though I’m using Grandma Kemstead’s cinnamon roll recipe, mine still turn out differently. It’s slight, but I can tell.”
He rubbed her shoulder. “You understand me then. So, I will show you my way, and you will find your own.”
“Actually, Brian didn’t teach me how to make baguettes. He didn’t want to give me any bad habits,” she said, touching a finger to the flour on the cloth, itching to get her hands dirty. “He wanted me to learn from the master.”
“Just so,” Andre said, nodding his head in approval. “First, you must make the proper baguette shape.” He used the heel of his hand to roll the ball of dough into a circle. “Now you tuck one side into the middle and pinch the seams. Then, you do the same thing on the other side. Then there’s the third tuck. You take one side and connect it all the way to the other side.”
His hands moved slowly so she wouldn’t miss any of the steps, and he glanced at her every few moments to make sure she was still with him.
“The last part is easy. You use both hands to roll it into the shape of the slender arm of a beautiful woman. A dancer’s arm. See?”
And she could see it. He left one end of the baguette a little thicker than the other so it looked like a woman’s arm from elbow to wrist.
He reached for a baker’s blade. “This little tool is your paintbrush. You are going to slash it across the bread to make the cuts everyone has come to expect from a proper baguette.” He made the diagonal slashes with the precision of a master. “Slash. Don’t saw. She will open to you better if you treat her with swiftness and gentleness.”
When he set the baguette aside and reached for another ball of dough, she watched in fascination as he worked ten times faster than he had during his first demonstration to shape it into another baguette. This was a true professional at work, and she wondered how many baguettes he could shape and slash in a minute. She decided to ask him.
“I’ve never counted. The bread sets the pace. You find your rhythm with the dough.”
Margie felt that way with her cinnamon rolls. Sometimes it felt like the dough wanted her to go slower. She mostly listened—unless she was in a rush.
“Once you master the proper baguette,” Andre said, “you can allow your imagination to come forth. That’s where the true magic comes.” He grabbed another ball of dough and shaped it. His slashes this time were more like the lines that divided a highway. “You can do anything with the blade, ma petite. Don’t be afraid of putting your mark on the dough. It’s like putting your mark on a lover, no?” He bumped her playfully. “Do you know what I mean?”
She thought of the fingernail marks or soft nips she’d made on past lovers, and the delicate bites she’d received in kind. Then she thought of Evan and wondered what kind of marks they would leave on each other.
“You are ripe, ma petite,” Andre said, studying her. “It is not just the sensuality of the bread. There’s a man. You are flushed.”
She raised a hand to her chest, embarrassed the heat her skin was releasing was
“I agree,” she said, laughing fully now. Confession, sin, and now monks. France had a long, colorful history. “I’ll have to share your view with a friend of mine.”
Evan would find the story amusing after his recent celibacy kick. Goosebumps suddenly rolled across her skin as she thought about them coming together as lovers. Would it be tonight? She hoped it would be tonight. Already, her insides felt like over-risen bread loaves, ready to explode, needing heat for completion.
“You are not here, ma petite,” Andre said. “Come rejoin me. You must be present to make magic.”
“I’m sorry.” She shook herself. “Please continue.”
“Brian must have shown you how he learned to make bread, but everyone makes it differently, even when they use the same recipe.”
She nodded. “I know. Even though I’m using Grandma Kemstead’s cinnamon roll recipe, mine still turn out differently. It’s slight, but I can tell.”
He rubbed her shoulder. “You understand me then. So, I will show you my way, and you will find your own.”
“Actually, Brian didn’t teach me how to make baguettes. He didn’t want to give me any bad habits,” she said, touching a finger to the flour on the cloth, itching to get her hands dirty. “He wanted me to learn from the master.”
“Just so,” Andre said, nodding his head in approval. “First, you must make the proper baguette shape.” He used the heel of his hand to roll the ball of dough into a circle. “Now you tuck one side into the middle and pinch the seams. Then, you do the same thing on the other side. Then there’s the third tuck. You take one side and connect it all the way to the other side.”
His hands moved slowly so she wouldn’t miss any of the steps, and he glanced at her every few moments to make sure she was still with him.
“The last part is easy. You use both hands to roll it into the shape of the slender arm of a beautiful woman. A dancer’s arm. See?”
And she could see it. He left one end of the baguette a little thicker than the other so it looked like a woman’s arm from elbow to wrist.
He reached for a baker’s blade. “This little tool is your paintbrush. You are going to slash it across the bread to make the cuts everyone has come to expect from a proper baguette.” He made the diagonal slashes with the precision of a master. “Slash. Don’t saw. She will open to you better if you treat her with swiftness and gentleness.”
When he set the baguette aside and reached for another ball of dough, she watched in fascination as he worked ten times faster than he had during his first demonstration to shape it into another baguette. This was a true professional at work, and she wondered how many baguettes he could shape and slash in a minute. She decided to ask him.
“I’ve never counted. The bread sets the pace. You find your rhythm with the dough.”
Margie felt that way with her cinnamon rolls. Sometimes it felt like the dough wanted her to go slower. She mostly listened—unless she was in a rush.
“Once you master the proper baguette,” Andre said, “you can allow your imagination to come forth. That’s where the true magic comes.” He grabbed another ball of dough and shaped it. His slashes this time were more like the lines that divided a highway. “You can do anything with the blade, ma petite. Don’t be afraid of putting your mark on the dough. It’s like putting your mark on a lover, no?” He bumped her playfully. “Do you know what I mean?”
She thought of the fingernail marks or soft nips she’d made on past lovers, and the delicate bites she’d received in kind. Then she thought of Evan and wondered what kind of marks they would leave on each other.
“You are ripe, ma petite,” Andre said, studying her. “It is not just the sensuality of the bread. There’s a man. You are flushed.”
She raised a hand to her chest, embarrassed the heat her skin was releasing was
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