Is
our country where, before the Second World War, each hamlet
had its oven, where the weekly baking was done in a festive
air, what has happened that it is so difficult to find good,
true bread? The Last of the Mohicans replies.
The
baker has become a hurried man. Not caring about the origins
of the flour, speeding up the kneading time, artificially
accelerating the rising time, botching up the baking - what
does it even matter, the baking, because after such a treatment
the loaf will collapse in your hands, insipid, pallid, light,
limp, lifeless. And yet, in different parts of Provence,
we have met passionate bakers who treat bread with all the
respect owed to this essential companion (from the Latin
for "with bread" - the person with whom we
share it). Let's knock at their doors. |
