Last night I was a commis again. Lost in a world that revolves around the manipulation of the life cycle of yeast. The bakeshop has it's own sounds, it's own language, it's own pecking order and it's own rhythm.
The first sound my ears had the pleasure to imbibe as I rolled up the door (bike in one hand confusion in the other,) was The Clash "Rudie can"t fail". I took it as an omen of good things to come. It was only a prelude of choice musical selections for the durration of the shift.
Then the storm of jargon roared past me. Batches of bread being called FB's or FL's or french 1,2,3,4, or retail, or or or...
Shaping bread will be my primary task for weeks to come I'm told. I must have rolled 200 bagettes, it's so Zen like. With each loaf the opportunity to improve on the last one. Looking down at the other shapers loaves for inspiration and wonder. I ponder how many bagettes I've eaten in my lifetime, and whose hands they were born in. It is a slightly intimate connection I have with my comunity now, knowing that my work has become their daily bread.