August 11 2004, 04:17 PM Number Taken

Baking is something we have done for a good while now. For myself, I have come a long way from the days of initial blundering, turning out weeks upon weeks worth of dense, blunt loaves. I was lucky then to have housemates, who would return home for lunch to eat slice after slice under peanut butter, with glass after glass of iced tea. I know a bit more about bread now, and the other evening we pulled together a respectable apple tart, largely from the shoulders of our own experience. It was pretty good; we have gotten better.

There are things we are not yet able to do, though, and I do not know if we will ever be able to do them. Pillowy egg bread that crumples like tissue under any but the sharpest and toothiest of knives, or the uniform, gentle crumb of a loaf of white bread held in an exquisite thinness of chewy, golden crust. Delicate shortbread under a glop of raspberry or apricot jam. Burnt almond tort. The magic of a Black & White cookie. That sort of thing.

For such stuff we turn to a local bakery. They all have different specialties: down a river some sits a place that churns out breads, all shapes, all light and sweet, available warm from the oven most any time of day. Over another river and into a dell is an unassuming French bakery that puts forth crusty, strong loaves that are meant to be tucked under the arm and brought home on a bicycle weighing thirty pounds. Over no river is the Biscotti factory, cranking out handmade, crispy heaven. Ours makes a mean pastry.

We are blessed to have it. In our little chunk of commercial hospitality, the neighborhood bakery seems to be hanging on, hanging on, surviving against the onslaught of the Ultramarket, still making small batches of gold and sweet. We have done well to seek them out when we could, and then return enough to discover for ourselves whatever it is that they did well there. More often than not, knowing that is enough to find reasons to return, again and again.