Today I watched a baker baking. Or rather making dough. A bin full of a
creamy almond buttery mix with thousands of chocolate chips folded and embedded
within it like jewels. It had a pinkish ivory color; it’s texture was soft,
gooey; pliant yet resistant; I could smell the vanilla, and chocolate, and
butter. The young baker with the chef’s hat and muscles clearly defined in his
forearms kneaded and pulled and turned and pressed the bin of dough with his
fists and I sipped on my cappuccino, and bit into my flaky lemon currant scone,
and watched, mesmerized, through the bakery window.
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