A baker mixes slippery eggs loudly in a greasy, green bowl and sings something undeniably French as he pirouettes across a dusty tile floor warmed by the hearth of a large, belching fire. His movement is precisely full of mistakes and he patches things where he can - a pinch of salt for the spoon dropped on the floor, some baking soda in with the water, lots of water, some hot butter in a bowl cooled to a gel, sugar and butter, some grated cheese, some milk, another egg.
He swishes his feet in the flour on the floor and slides the bowl and the mixture across the table to the far end. He picks up an apple and some cinnamon and begins to chop them up against the wet worn wood of the cutting board. Some sticky flour smears under his fingers as he cups the cuts into a large ceramic mug.
Outside, the smoke from the fire passes up and through the pipes of the chimney and into the dusk of the air. The plume billows up and away and takes a blocky form behind the small hut with the thatched roof. The light coming from the windows pulses like the slow breathing of a full man after supper. Everything is warm in the world as the baker makes something new.