Making bread is an art, almost like a dance. You knead the dough rhythmically, move your hands, shake your hips…
Former ballerina Sophie watches with admiration the work of the Italian baker Giacomo. But she is not convinced that she belongs in his bakery. After the sudden end of her dancing career, Sophie's life seems to have lost its meaning.
Who is she without dancing? Who will love her when she's no longer shining on the stage?
Gradually, however, Sophie discovers much more than a temporary position in the small bakery: the wisdom of an extraordinary baker, the happiness of the little things in life and the courage to transform and reinvent herself.
“ The Baker Who Made Stories” is a beautiful, inspiring and heart-warming story that will live long in our minds. Hen reminds us to accept ourselves as we are and skillfully points out the secret ingredients for a good life.
Karsten Hen is a popular author of more than eighteen bestsellers. His novel "The Man Who Walked Books" quickly conquered readers in our country and around the world.
Snippet
About three hundred meters away, Giacomo Bottura was sleeping restlessly. He kept turning over on the uneven mattress. Although he was the village baker, he did not dream of bread rolls and flour, crumbs and dough. He dreamed of Calabria, the land of his youth. As often happens in dreams, his place seemed unreal, the mountain ranges and the seashore as if woven from air. He usually dreamed of Calabria, when fragrant Italian oranges were brought into the Nitels' shop and the owners moved the crates outside to attract customers. The oranges reminded him of the bergamot fruits he had collected with his aunt Rosarina.
That night, Giacomo dreamed that he was walking along the stony road to the orchard perched high above the sea. He was carrying bottles of water and a basket of food. When he finally reached the shade of the old trees, he was very sweaty. He dreams of plucking the sour, slightly bitter fruits while a cool breeze blows in the garden and tells him stories from the nearby ocean. In his dreams, Calabria was always summer, but never too hot, there were no pesky mosquitoes, the sun didn't burn his skin. No one criticized him for working slowly. Everyone was smiling, even though their work was tiring.
After these dreams he woke up well rested.
And the same thing happened today: I woke up with the feeling that I smelled bergamot. He went to wash up in his small bathroom and reached for the orange bergamot soap. He enjoyed its round shape and involuntarily likened it to his dreams of Calabria: always fresh, flawless, the perfect illusion. As usual, complete your morning outfit with attention to hair; combed it back and arranged the large waves so that they were perfectly parallel. He remembered how much he had admired his father for that hairstyle. Unfortunately, she admired him for nothing else. The old man left without reconciling.
Dress in the dark; the semi-darkness was very suitable for the old furniture, which did not like to wake up early. When he moved into this place, the furniture was waiting for him, and he wasn't one to throw away good furniture - not that he didn't like it. You wouldn't freak out an old painting either just because the painted deer is standing in front of an overly blue alpine lake and looks completely unreal. Giacomo respected craftsmanship. Over time, he hung pictures of his old homeland on the walls. A photo of his favorite football team, cut from a newspaper and framed - from the year they won the championship after a forty-year hiatus. Another picture - every morning he caressed her and whispered gentle words to her. He arranged a dozen books on the shelf; their covers indicated that he read them often. He replaced only those items that refused to serve him any longer: the broken lampshade in the small kitchen, the yellowed curtains in the living room, the cracked sink in the bathroom. He didn't buy expensive things. He was mending his apartment as if it were an old, worn-out pair of trousers. He didn't like to waste money. He didn't earn much, and most of his income went to Calabria.
The bakery was located on the ground floor. To enter the room, Giacomo had to go through the backyard. He enjoyed walking the ten meters between his home and his workplace even when it was snowing or raining or a storm was raging. Time was very important to him. If he just walked down the stairs, he wouldn't feel what the day was going to be like. He needed to know what it was like outside to bake good bread. The batter sensed what the weather was and adjusted to the conditions. The ten meters to the bakery were paved with gravel. Giacomo had planted plants from his homeland in the garden: licorice, sedum, three types of chives and, naturally, an olive tree. His latest acquisition was a young clementine for which he had built a greenhouse. Nonna (grandmother - Italian), sent him plants from Calabria so that he would not forget his homeland. How could he forget her! When he caressed the plants, he felt nonna's kisses on his forehead, her caresses on his cheeks.
