The smell of roasted garlic is the smell of patience.
It takes three hours to confit garlic properly—slow-cooking the cloves in oil until they turn into soft, spreadable gold. Once that gold is spread onto toasty, freshly baked sourdough with house-made butter, it becomes a bite of heaven.
I had made it last night, staying up late while Dad snored in front of the TV. I whipped it into the salted butter this morning, sealing it in a little glass jar with a gingham lid. The gold to go with Dad's award-winning sourdough bread. Nothing in this bakery compares to this deadly combination. It is unique because only I have the patience and the love to painstakingly make it from scratch.
"Lennie! Catch!"
I spun around just as a small brown paper bag sailed through the air. I caught it against my chest with a satisfying crinkle.
"Fresh sourdough, enough for that young man upstairs," Dad announced, his face dusted with flour like a festive ghost. "And don't forget the jar. You got it?"
"Got it." I patted my pocket where the jar of garlic confit butter was nestled. It was still slightly warm against my hip.
"Tell him it's the good stuff," Dad said, winking. "Although, judging by how fast that boy is growing, he needs the calories."
Dad's smile filled up his whole face. His jolly round belly and the dopey grin reminded me of the nursery rhyme books from when I was little. Do you know the muffin man? The muffin man, the muffin man. The muffin man who lives down Drury Lane. In my head, the round baker always chased the runaway muffin.
But Dad isn't a muffin man. He is a baker—an award-winning baker famous for his sourdough in our little country town of Bowral. He was profiled in a magazine once, and someone famous even came to visit. We have his photo and the magazine cutouts framed on the wall.
"Honey, don't forget to eat your slice before you go to school! Give the kid some of my mulberry jam, it's in season and it's fresh," Mum chirped from behind the counter.
This was our routine. Before we raced to school every morning, I would send breakfast up to the boy upstairs. Sebastian Vance. Blond hair, blue eyes, and freckles. In our small town, he stood out. All the girls had a crush on him and were super jealous of me.
Why? Because I was his best friend. We grew up together. He lived upstairs, on top of our bakery, and we lived in the unit next to him.
Dreamy Vance, they called him. Last summer, he was still my best friend. But after his grandma passed away and his dad came back into his life, he had been different. More reserved around me.
Who am I? I'm Lennie Miller, daughter of Joe and Margie Miller, bakers in Bowral. Dad always bragged that he got Mum—a beauty in high school—from the first bite of his sourdough bread. He wooed her with carbohydrates.
Mum is a tall, gorgeous brunette of German and Chinese heritage, whose parents came to Australia during the gold rush. She looks exotic and refined, making even the baker's uniform look elevated. Dad is true blue Aussie—nothing special, not a looker.
And me? I inherited her face and his love for bread. Just your everyday, average girl.
Sebastian's grandma used to cuddle me when I was little; I was her soft, squishy comfort pillow. Then she would braid my hair and tie a bow in it. I never liked the bows, so as soon as I left, I would pull them all out and let my curly hair bounce free when we played tips.
Since she passed away, we didn't play much anymore. I only went up there to deliver food. This was the ritual. It had been the ritual since we were five years old. Back then, Sebastian Vance was a scrawny kid who needed feeding. Now, in Year 11, Seb was... different.
YOU ARE READING
Sourdough hearts
RomanceThe moment he called me fat and ugly was the moment I realized the only dead weight I needed to lose was him-and now that I'm gone, he's the one on his knees begging to be carried.
