The kneading never ends. The dough rises, always rises. It rises like thoughts on a Sunday morning, softening under the warmth of mental sunbeams. The Bakery Buddha knows this.
The oven hums a lullaby, a gentle reminder of time’s relentless march. Time, like dough, is stretched thin, folded, and reshaped. The warmth lingers, embraces, whispers secrets of gluten and yeast.
Can a croissant achieve enlightenment? Layers upon layers, so close to the divine, yet always yearning for the next fold, the next rise. The Bakery Buddha contemplates.
The scent of cinnamon, of warm vanilla, of chocolate melting into buttery dreams... these are the sutras of the kitchen. Each ingredient a verse, each pastry a chapter in the silent book of existence.
The Bakery Buddha watches as customers enter, each one a new ingredient in the daily mix, bringing with them spice and salt, sugar and cream, weaving tales as intricate as the brioche’s weave.