Bon Appetit by Sandra Byrd Page B

on both Saturday and Sunday. Fortunately, Maman was letting me help with the bread since I’d had my bread course this week. I planned to bake up a little surprise for Odious. I grinned at the thought of it.
    “Lexi, come here!” Patricia barked from the back. I stood, stunned, for a minute. Simone caught it too.
    Patricia had called me by the familiar, friendly form of the verb, not the formal form she’d always used before.
    “Get going!” Simone shooed me through the door.
    Once in the back room, though, things were all business. “I heard you whistling up the street five minutes ago,” Patricia said. “What took you so long?” I saw the softness of her face. She was truly pretty when she let her guard down.
    “I was helping Simone,” I explained.
    “Well, I’m leaving in one hour for the train to Provence, and I need to give you instructions for the rest of the day. Too bad you’ll be at the village bakery this weekend”. She looked at me intently. “Philippe will be here all weekend, and he could use the help. But you’ll see him at church on Sunday, I suppose. He’ll have someone come in early so he doesn’t miss”. By her sniff, I could tell she did not approve of his choice.
    “What about Céline after school?”
    Patricia nodded. “That is the
problème
, isn’t it? She’ll be at my
tante’s
house. Simone will be here to watch her today, as Philippe and my papa are looking at the building in Versailles to see if it’s suitable for the next shop”. She paused. “How was your schooling this week?”
    “Bon!”
I said, glad to be able to share the truth. “I made brioche—eggy, and just so”. I grinned. “Everyone at the lunch table said it was tender and delicious”.
    “
Bon
. Today you will make brioche. Place the dough in the cooler overnight, and I will leave a note for Philippe to bake it in themorning. Make enough for ten loaves, as many people buy brioche on Saturday mornings”.
    What if I made a mistake? The bakery would have no brioche at all. I got the recipe card out and studied it, and began to measure bit by bit. I stationed myself at one of the huge dough mixers. “Can I use this?” I asked one of the bread crew.
    “But of course!” he said.
    I turned on my iPod and began the Paris Combo playlist. The jazzy, sensual music filled my ears as I began the yeast sponge, making very certain that no salt got in at this point.
    I noticed, now that I was alone so much, that I talked with God more often, especially in the past couple weeks. In the morning, because there was no one else to converse with. To ask His opinion later in the day. To share my personal thoughts. Never before had it only been me and Him. I’d always had other people to turn to first.
    Lord, please help Anne
, I prayed as I mixed.
She looked so dejected after the failure with her bread today. And help me too. I don’t want to let anyone down with the brioche
.
    I envisioned Philippe coming in the next morning, taking out my dough, kissing his fingers into the air at the glossy, perfect sight of it, and baking it up brown and beautiful. Many customers would comment on the perfect, eggy texture. I grinned.
    I supposed it was equally possible that Philippe would come in, shout,
“Quelle problème!”
at the greasy, flat tire of dough in the walkin, and have to profusely apologize to his regular customers, who demanded a nonexistent loaf of their Saturday brioche.
    I tried to keep that thought at bay.
    Céline came in a few hours later and grinned at our two mascots, the shrunken apple heads, perched on the shelf above the dry goods. I turned off my iPod so I could hear her better.
    “Goûter?”
she asked hopefully.
    “Ask Simone,” I told her. “I’m busy baking”.
    “Baking,
beurk,”
she said.
Yuck
. She walked forward to get her treat, and I finished up my dough.
    At school, I had let the dough warm-rise in a few hours. Today I’d let it slow-rise in the cooler so it would be ready tomorrow