Split the loaf with a stranger

Endless errands wear me out, yet I also appreciate the conviviality of a busy season. I wrote about that tension in a 2019 newsletter piece and now, in the days leading up to American Thanksgiving, seems like an apt time to share them here on the blog for the first time. Fun fact: when I first published this I got the name of the bread all wrong. I called the loaf I sought a mille ; maybe this is what I had in mind? Regardless, I was wrong: it’s a miche.



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On a recent chilly Saturday, I ventured into my local bakery ( the very one I’ve written about before ) to pick up a loaf of bread before we welcomed houseguests for the weekend. The bakery is a zoo on Saturdays, and for good reason: the brunch is fantastic, the atmosphere cozy, and the expanded weekend menu something special.



They bake up things on Saturday mornings they don’t make on any other day. And so I was thrilled to slip into the crowded shop, packed with customers waiting for brunch tables, and see that they still had a single loaf of my very favorite Saturday-only offering, waiting on the rack like they’d been holding it just for me.



I was eager to get home after several hours of Saturday morning errands. This was my last stop, and I waited by the counter while the cashier finished ringing up another order. I was next in line, though people had begun to pile up behind me in the cramped space. It would be my turn in a moment. But then—another woman whooshed in from the cold through the exit door, plunked herself at the counter, and said,  Is this where I order bread?



If she had been a regular, she would have entered through the other door, the one the rest of us had used. She would have known the cashier would call the next customer to come forward when they were ready. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t, and without meaning to, she jumped the line.



She proceeded to ask the cashier a dozen questions about the loaves available for sale: what were they called, how were they made, how much did they cost, which days do they bake each?  You have got to be kidding me , I thought, knowing full well I could place my own order in 8 seconds and be out the door in 30.



But she kept asking questions: What sandwich toppings would go well with each loaf, and did it matter what kind of freezer bag, and what were the prices again? It’s possible at this point I was noting that I could be home by now, making my second cup of coffee, because it was supposed to be  my  turn. But I determined that optimism would rule the day, and it’s perfectly understandable to be curious about phenomenal baked goods, and I sincerely wished her well in her choice of loaves.



Based on the unfolding conversation, I guessed she would pivot to muffins or pastry—but alas, instead, she ORDERED MY LOAF. The one, single, special, Saturday loaf I had already mentally used in three different meals with our houseguests. The one I would now have to wait till next Saturday to get. The one she’d  just  told the cashier was “way too big for her.”



But she bought it, and then asked the cashier to slice it. ( How thick?,  he asked, and they proceeded to discuss the various options.) It was now well past the time I thought I’d be home, and nothing left in the case looked anywhere near as appealing as the bread— my  bread—she’d be taking home with her.



I could end the story here, with me acting like a brat about bread, but that’s not what happened next. I had, in fact, just heard the entire conversation about her bread choice. So, while the cashier sliced her loaf, I stepped out of my introvert comfort zone and said,  I hope you enjoy the miche; it’s my family’s favorite .



She told me she was excited to try it, that she’d heard great things about the bakery but this was her first visit, but that she wasn’t sure how on earth she could use that much bread, and it’s awfully expensive—she hoped it was worth it.



And so, on impulse, I offered to split it with her. The cashier deemed our idea a great one and divided our neatly sliced loaf between two separate bags, and we had a lovely conversation—about the neighborhood, the town, our respective plans for the miche. (At this point, involved in an interesting conversation, I was happy to chat, not nearly as eager to get home to my second cup.)



Half was plenty—for both of us.



I don’t want to turn this into some magical encounter, because it was really pretty ordinary. But then again, perhaps that’s the magic of it? (At the time we were reading  Harry’s Trees in Book Club, a book that prompts one to notice the extraordinary ordinary.) In ten seconds, I went from feeling like a crank to feeling like a neighbor, from feeling self-righteous to feeling understanding—and understood. We both left with half of that precious last loaf, and we were  both  very happy about it.



Reader, I’ve been thinking about this encounter ever since: the limits of my perspective, the intentions of those around me, and my agency in all of it.



It’s only bread, but you know what? It’s good bread.



I’d love to hear about your favorite bakery offerings, encounters with strangers, and the tension between endless errands and the conviviality of a busy season in the comments section.
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