The Flour Mill – Part 2: First Loaf

The oven in the mill had not been lit in thirty years.

Ruthie and Noelle spent a week restoring it. They cleared the soot, mended the bricks, rebuilt the iron door. On the first Saturday of October, they stacked it with split birch, struck a match, and watched the fire catch. It roared up, golden and fierce. By noon, the old brick vault was glowing white-hot.

Noelle had set the dough the night before: flour from the mill, water from the creek, salt, a spoonful of sourdough starter from her grandmother. It had risen overnight in great trembling domes under cloths. She shaped it by hand, slow and gentle, into twelve round loaves. She slid them into the oven on a long wooden peel.

They waited. The mill smelled of woodsmoke and baking. The creek chuckled below. Ruthie stood beside her, wiping her hands on her apron, silent.

"What if they're no good?" said Noelle.

"They'll be good."

"What if they're terrible?"

"They'll be ours."

When the loaves came out, they were golden-brown, crisp, singing as they cooled. The crust crackled. The smell was extraordinary. Noelle broke one open with her hands. The crumb was soft and glossy, the colour of cream. She tore a piece and handed half to Ruthie.

They ate it, still hot, on the mill porch, in the thin October sun. It was nutty, sweet, a little tangy, with a taste of wheat she had forgotten existed.

"It's the best bread I've ever made," said Noelle, tearfully.

"It's the best I've ever eaten."

By afternoon, half the village had arrived, with butter and jam and cheese. They ate on the grass until every loaf was gone.

At dusk, in the quiet mill, Noelle and Ruthie swept the floor together, white to the elbows.

"Can I ask you something?" said Noelle.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you? I'd like something that tastes like bread."

Ruthie laughed, a deep, floury laugh. "Yes. And if you say stop, you must bake for me every day."

"I'd bake for you every day."

She kissed her, warm and a little yeasty, a floured hand rising to the grey-brown crop. Ruthie kissed her back with a slow, strong tenderness, tasting of crust and cider. The wheel creaked outside. The last light poured gold through the dusty windows.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Ruthie.

"Green," said Noelle. "Very green."

They bake on Saturdays. There is a queue before dawn. The sign by the mill door says: Flour by Ruthie. Bread by Noelle. Mind the wheel.

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