Thinkingdog Publishing

There’s something magical about mornings in a German village . Before the first streaks of light even dare to touch the rooftops, the bakers are already awake—aprons dusted with flour, ovens glowing like small suns, and the air heavy with the promise of freshly baked bread. When I was growing up, the bakery wasn’t just a shop. It was the place. The heartbeat of the morning. People would shuffle in, still half-asleep, clutching their baskets like loyal companions. There’d be a chorus of Guten Morgens, the creak of the old wooden door, and the rhythmic thwack of bread loaves landing on the counter. No one was in a hurry. You stood, you chatted, you shared your plans for the day—perhaps a complaint about the weather, or a compliment about Frau Schneider’s strudel (which, let’s be honest, always deserved applause). And oh, that smell. If you could bottle it, you’d own happiness itself. Later, when the sun climbed high and the bustle began, the same bakery would transform. The sleepy ea...