Fifth, stir. Not to the point of fatigue. Not to the point of pain in your hands. Five minutes is enough. Then rest. Then again. This is not work. It’s a dance. You stretch the dough, fold it, turn it. It becomes smooth. Like a child’s skin. Like a morning after rain.
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Sixth is rising. The dough shouldn’t “rise.” It should open up. Like a flower. Like a heart that has finally opened. This doesn’t happen in the oven. It happens in silence. In the dark. In the warmth. You place it in a bowl, cover it with a towel—and walk away. Don’t look. Don’t touch. Trust.
Seventh is shape. Not perfect. Not geometric. Let it be uneven. Let the edges be cracked. Bread that looks “made” is dead. Bread that looks alive is real. It says, “I was hands. I was time. I was love.”
Eighth is oven. Preheat the oven to 250°C. Place the cast-iron pan in. When it’s hot, lower the dough. Cover with the lid. The first 20 minutes—steam. It creates a crust, like a French baguette. Then—open it. Let it golden. Let it crack. Let it smell like home.
Ninth—cool. Don’t cut right away. Wait 2 hours. The bread isn’t ready yet. It’s ripening. Inside, the chemistry continues. The starch turns to sugar. The flavors unfold. If you cut too early, it will be sticky. Like immature love.
Tenth—eat. Slowly. Not with a phone. With butter. With sea salt. With tea. With silence. When you bite, you hear a crunch. You feel the moisture. You feel—this isn’t bread. This is a memory. Of how you once sat in the kitchen, and your grandmother said, “Eat. This is your body.”
