Hungry Girl Hungry to experience the world...

It was a late November in the countryside east of Carcassonne. The sound of rain hitting the windows filled the space of the night with white noise like static on a radio. The light of the bare bulb overhead lent a yellowish quality to everything. The plaster walls looked soiled, and the stone floor was covered in muck tracked in from the yard. The dark wood of the table seemed ancient, its edges scrubbed soft by years of use.
A man stood at the table, thumbing a worn and stained piece of paper covered with the spidery scroll of another generation. I wondered if the recipe belonged to his mother, and how many times he had stood at the table in this way. He didn’t seem all that old, but in the dim light, he looked tired and used. On the table before him sat crumpled brown paper bags of varying sizes, several eggs, and an empty stainless steel bowl. He refolded the paper, placed it into his pocket, patted it twice, and cleared his throat.
“You can understand a person by their bread,” he said in French, speaking slowly and simply so I could understand. Though he was speaking to me, he also seemed to be speaking to the air.
He tipped bags into the bowl without seeming to measure; flour, salt, and sugar; white, on white, on white. Fingers with gnarled knuckles found a pinch of yeast in the smallest bag and added it. Weathered hands dipped into the bowl, mixing the ingredients together with a wiggle of his fingers.
“Closed-minded people make closed bread: heavy and dense, like rocks. It doesn’t grow.”
On the stove was a small pot of milk, warming gently, melting cubes of butter into pools of liquid gold to float on top. He poured it into the bowl with the flour. Almost instantly, my nostrils were hit with a smell like cinnamon. I remarked on it, my words met with a slight smile, as if we were sharing a secret. He cracked eggs straight into the bowl, using only one hand. Again, he dipped his hands into the bowl and seemed to only wiggle his fingers.
“People with open minds make the best bread. It grows bigger, full of air, like it is breathing in life.”
A shaggy mass appeared in the bowl, and within seconds, it became a smooth ball of dough. He scooped it up in one hand, set it on the table, sprinkled it with a little flour, and began to knead. His motions were methodical; gently pushing and folding. Tenderness filled his eyes, and warmth flooded his face.
“And you have to give love to it. It tastes better when it is made with love.”