“Here’s the money.”
Mom counts the few pennies into my little hands, and I rush off. I love being sent to the bakery early in the morning.
No need to go far. The baker’s old brick building with a store front shop is right around the corner of our street. The baker’s wife sells the still warm bread from 6:00 o’clock. Whereas he, in his backroom, goes into his second round of busyness, baking cakes. We’ll get those later.
“Hmm, smells delicious, doesn’t it?” says our neighbor’s wife, winking as she walks up to me. Even outside the shop, the air is filled with rich bread aroma.
I laugh, “yes”, and politely open the door for her.
There’s a line waiting to be served.
We all crave this bread. Baked like only German village bakers can. Crusty farm bread that amazes everyone. I buy one large loaf, and while slowly walking home bore a hole into its bottom to savor the first bites of tasty, fresh, gorgeous bread. Leaving the crust standing, pretending there’s no hole.
“You got it?”
We both smile, knowing.