Yeah, yeah, we all know I love bread. I mean, I really love bread. Years ago I started baking it -- sandwich bread, French bread, ciabatta bread...one Christmas I made panettone for all my friends and neighbors. I made it by hand until I developed wrist problems. I got a KitchenAid and kept going. Something about bread...the meditative process of kneading, the way it warms my home with its scent and warmth, it exudes goodness. That sounds ridiculous, but I'm not a poet and I can't think of any other way to put it. It makes me feel good -- to make it, to eat it, to gift it.
Eventually various health reasons halted my excessive consumption of bread, and in turn, my production of it.
On my way home from the Oregon coast on Sunday, I stumbled upon a tiny bakery in the town of Philomath. I was with my friend Anita. We stepped in the door thinking we might find lunch, and we were immediately blasted with hot, humid air. But it was just a bakery. I say "just." The minute we walked out I knew I had to go back with my camera.
I've been thinking about this blog post for three days. I've already written way more than I intended -- I'd hoped to capture my feelings in my photos, but I think I was too distracted.
If you're interested to learn more about this bakery and its baker, check out this six-year-old article from The Eugene Weekly:
Rising at Sunrise; Baker Bill Hotchkiss feeds more than the body.
It's the fourth article down on the page. After reading it myself, it explained a lot about the comfortable energy that saturated that kitchen.