Léo dipped his hand into the bag and sprinkled flour liberally over the work surface, dusted his hands, then lifted out the ball of dough.
‘It has to be worked now, very hard, very well for at least five minutes, maybe more, to activate the yeast and gluten and get the rise and texture we want. Now watch my technique.’
Juliet bristled at Léo’s didactic tone but was intrigued and leant to observe more closely as he slammed into the dough with the heels of his hands, turning and folding it as he went, keeping up a string of instructions. She was just beginning to feel hypnotised by the repetitive, unrelenting motions, when he stepped back.
‘Voila. Now it is your turn, you can show me if you have learnt well.’
Bossy-boots, thought Juliet.I’ll show himall right.
Pushing her sleeves up, she attacked the dough, resisting as she did so the temptation to picture Léo’s face as she pulled and pummelled.Whack, thump, bang. It was certainly satisfying. She lifted her hands away and looked triumphantly over at the French chef.
‘There. Even got my heart rate up a bit. What’s next?’
‘What’s next? What’s next is that you keep going for another four and a half minutes.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Juliet, you have been working that dough – vigorously, I agree – for no more than thirty seconds. You must carry on.’
‘Can’t you do it?’
‘Don’t tell me you are worn out already?’
‘More bored really.’
Now she sounded like Frankie, but it was hard to keep the petulance out of her voice when he was glaring at her like a stern headmaster.
‘Well, you cannot be bored with your dough. Come on, or it will never be ready for your vicar. Your technique was good.’
‘Oh. Well. I expect it was, yes. All right then.’
She resumed what she was now considering to be her daily workout when Léo added:
‘Yes, a good technique, you listened well.’
Juliet refrained from throwing the dough at his head but relieved her feelings instead in hertechnique. She was sure he was dragging out the five minutes but determined not to ask if it was up. She was relieved when he finally announced, ‘Bon. Let us see if it’s ready.’
He leant over and pressed a finger into the dough.
‘Good. You see the way the press mark – what do you call it, is there a special word?’
‘The dent?’
‘Ah bon, the dent, it rises again quickly. That means it is ready.’
‘Great. So, how do we make the owl shape?’
‘Juliet, have you truly forgotten everything in the years since you last made your loaf for the vicar? The dough must be left now to rise – an hour at least.’
‘Oh right, yes, of course. Actually, this might be a good time for something else. An idea I had.’
She suddenly felt shy. Maybe he would think it was stupid, but he smiled encouragingly as he draped a cloth over the dough and placed it on the sunny windowsill.
‘I just wondered, maybe it would be fun to present the owl in a sort of summery nest – look, I did some sketches.’
She pushed some pieces of paper across the work surface, which he picked up and scrutinised. Each showed a different arrangement of flowers, fruit, foliage and even hay to make a dreamy bed for the owl to nestle in.
‘Juliet, I think this is a wonderful idea. I have a deep tray we could use – but where will we get the leaves and things we need?’
