Story time: A personal experience with bread.

Because. Sometimes food is an emotion.

As I sit on the porch wrapped tightly in a feather duvet, the cold November winds start to blow as if announcing the coming of day. Around this seemingly forgotten German town, a train is struggling past, dragging in the morning as the wind urges it on from behind.

Stretching out before me, the cold, colourless dawn cover the farmlands. In my mind’s eye, I remember my own golden African sunrise. I look at the countless white stripes of residue aeroplanes left behind against the bright sky. The blue of the heaven, a contrast against the silence that hangs over the town before the colour of day sets in.

Children will soon be out casting their handmade kites in the rush of wind, while their mothers and fathers take a pilgrimage to the nearest bäckerei for fresh bread. I swallow down the last image of absolute serenity as the last drops of hot chocolate burn down my throat and I prepare to do the same.

Walking beside me is the railway tracking to my left, and field on my right. I try to consume every smell, every breath of ice-cold air flooding my nostrils. I want to remember the crunch of the rocky gravel beneath my leather boots. Tomorrow I go to Berlin, to be swallowed up by curio shop hoarding tourists who seem unaware of the beauty beyond the cashier. Now is the time to appreciate the silence of nature, to preserve the memory of this brown and gray town.

The next bend spirits my breath away into the wind, as a field of striking yellow poppies stare me in the face. A patchwork quilt unfolds before me-squares of soft green fields are carefully stitched to zest-dyed poppies, with a hedge of age-old trees sewn to a small patch of water. Even the poppies bow down with the wind as a salute to the bleached morning.

At the bakery, I immediately break open the steaming brötchen. Crumbs fly as the crisp shell is cracked open, revealing its soft, steaming bosom. A lump of butter turns into a river of yellow cream on impact. As I take a bite of the still-steaming roll, I think of a last kiss to a lover. The baker, quite concerned, asks, “Ist alles gut Kind?” (Is everything okay child?). “Ja!” I reply as the final drop of butter-drenched bread slides past my lips.

On the journey back past the fields of golden flowers and emerald grasslands, the baker’s question clings to my thoughts. Yes, I am indeed “okay”. However, I am not a “child” anymore. On my journey, I have seen the all the sights, have bought the postcards. Yet, this clear morning is what will tease my soul for ages to come. I smile and turn around to take a picture of the railway tracking miles towards the distance. I realise I have grown up.


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