Simona. This bread is perfect.
Urs. Thank you. I’m glad you like it.
Simona. I mean it. The elasticity, the crust, the flavor, everything. How do you do it?
Urs. You know? I don’t really know how I do it.
Simona. What do you mean?
Urs. I actually feel disconnected from my bread. Sure, I make it with my hands, but when the loaves come out of the oven, I just stare at them as if someone else made them.
Simona. Maybe it’s because you’ve made so many loaves.
Urs. That might be, but each loaf comes out perfect, and that bothers me.
Simona. How does it bother you?
Urs. You’d think I would do something different when making bread, but I don’t. There’s nothing special about my process, there’s no secret. I just knead the dough, let it rise, punch it down like everyone else. In reality, my bread should not taste the way it should.
Simona. Do you feel like you don’t deserve to make such good bread?
Urs. Yes, I do. I think baking bread is my best talent, but I don’t want to be a bread baker. I think I’d rather do anything else than bake bread. I’d rather be a professional bowler than be a bread baker.
Simona. Now I feel bad.
Urs. Why?
Simona. Cause you baked bread for me.
Urs. No, I enjoy baking bread for you. Okay, I was exaggerating about bowling, but baking bread? Come on. Are you going to introduce me like, “Hi, this is my friend, Urs. He bakes bread.”
Simona. But I would say, Hi, this is my friend, Urs. He bakes the best bread in the world. If I could bake bread like you I would go off to France, hit the major restaurants, and live off of bread money.
Urs. I would hate working in a restaurant. It’s this underworld of dealers and cheats.
Simona. I would do it, just to live in France.
Urs. Bread, why bread? Why couldn’t it have been twenty ten vision?
Simona. I wish I could bake bread like you.
Urs. If I could, I would give it to you.
Simona. Can you touch my hands?
End. Bread for France
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