When I arrived home this Saturday evening after a full day of grocery shopping, research at CERN, and French class, out of habit I checked my mail box. I check it about daily, for reasons I do not know. I receive mail at a significantly lower frequency than daily, that's for sure. But there is a bit of magic in opening the box and perhaps finding something for you that you did not expect.
I checked my mail box and found a box. A box that makes one wonder how the mailman managed to fit it through the slot of the mail box, as that strikes one of being of moderate size while this box was not. Well, the box had been slightly squished. But it had my name on it and was for me, so with childish glee I scampered up the stairs to my apartment to find a knife and open it.
My suspicions were that this was the book I ordered from Amazon. But I only placed that order ten days ago, and the website repeatedly promised delivery times to Europe on the order of three to five weeks. Besides, there was no lop-sided smile on the box.
But there was a lop-sided smile on me as I opened it and found my book, nestled amongst its plastic air cushions. A salute to Amazon for its marvelous service. I have gotten myself Reinhart's The Bread Baker's Apprentice, and here it had flown to me in a mere ten days.
Because I am probably the only person in this corner of France, the land of amazing boulangeries, crazy enough to be making my own bread. Where shall I start? The challah? Oh, no, wait . . . the English muffins! But the pain a l'ancienne . . .
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