October had arrived on the balcony with cool mornings, pale sunlight, and the unmistakable feeling that the growing season was beginning to pack its bags.
The tomatoes, however, had not received the message. Several remained on the vines, glowing red among leaves that were becoming increasingly tired, while the basil continued to produce just enough greenery to encourage false confidence.
The Balcony Gardener surveyed the remains of her summer harvest and decided to make bread.
This was not an ordinary decision. The Balcony Gardener had baked things before, but bread involved yeast, patience, and the possibility that something alive might rise beyond her control.
Nevertheless, she gathered the tomatoes, picked several generous handfuls of basil and carried them into the kitchen.
She watched as the Balcony Gardener added the chopped tomatoes and basil, then kneaded the dough until it became smooth and elastic.”
As she closed the balcony door, the basil leaves still on the plant turned toward the kitchen window. The last tomatoes followed as far as their stems would allow.
Teddy came in behind her and settled beside the kitchen table. He had learned that when tomatoes, basil and olive oil appeared together, it was sensible to remain nearby. His eyes followed every movement of the Balcony Gardener’s hands, and when a piece of tomato fell onto the floor, he examined it carefully before deciding that his interest lay elsewhere.
The Balcony Gardener had just begun mixing the dough when Madame Dupont arrived. She was wearing a burgundy cape and a hat decorated with several autumn leaves, two small apples and something that might once have belonged to a pheasant.
“My dear,” she said, looking into the bowl, “What are you doing?”
“I am making bread with tomatoes and basil from the balcony.”
Madame Dupont drew closer. “You are making the bread itself?”
“That is generally what making bread means.”
“I have lived in Paris all my life,” Madame Dupont said, removing her gloves. “Bread comes from the boulangerie. One does not normally meet it at this stage of its development.”
She watched as the Balcony Gardener added the chopped tomatoes and basil, then kneaded the dough until it became smooth and elastic.
“Does it know what to do now?” Madame Dupont asked.
“The yeast knows.”
Madame Dupont regarded the dough with increased respect.
The Balcony Gardener placed it in a bowl, covered it with a clean cloth and set it near the window.
“There,” she said. “Now we wait.”
“How long?”
“Until it rises.”
Madame Dupont looked at the covered bowl.
“Will it go very high?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
The Balcony Gardener was not sure, but she had discovered that certainty was sometimes useful when speaking to Madame Dupont.
While they waited, the Balcony Gardener prepared a pot of marjoram tea.”
For a while, nothing happened. Then the cloth lifted a little and fell again, almost as if the dough beneath it had taken a breath. Madame Dupont leaned forward.
“It is breathing.”
“It is rising.”
“It looks like breathing.”
The Balcony Gardener decided that both things might be true.
Teddy had also noticed the movement. He rose from his place beside the table and approached the bowl with care, stretching his neck toward it while keeping all four paws at what he considered a prudent distance. When the cloth lifted again, he stepped backward and looked at the Balcony Gardener, waiting for an explanation. Receiving none, he sat down to continue his observations.
While they waited, the Balcony Gardener prepared a pot of marjoram tea. The marjoram had also grown on the balcony, where it had spent the summer leaning companionably over the edge of its pot and interfering with the thyme.
The Balcony Gardener had recently begun experimenting with it as an infusion, although “experimenting” was perhaps a generous description of what happened when she poured boiling water over several leaves and hoped for the best.
She took a cautious sip.
The tea tasted green, thoughtful and faintly medicinal. It suggested that it knew something about her health but had not yet decided whether to tell her.
Madame Dupont examined her cup.
“Is it meant to be that color?”
“I believe so.”
Madame Dupont took a sip and became very still.
“It is interesting,” she said at last.
This was not quite praise, but neither was it refusal, so the Balcony Gardener decided that the experiment was progressing well.
The aroma curled around the kitchen, slipped beneath the door and entered the corridor.”
Teddy sniffed the air near Madame Dupont’s cup, then turned his head away with a firmness that left no doubt about his opinion.
By the time the loaf went into the oven, the apartment was filling with the scent of tomatoes, basil and warm bread. The aroma curled around the kitchen, slipped beneath the door and entered the corridor.
There it paused, as though deciding which way to go.
A small part drifted upstairs, where it settled outside the door of a woman who was trying not to eat between meals. The rest traveled downward, taking its time on every landing and slipping beneath doors with the confidence of something that expected to be welcomed.
Madame Dupont breathed deeply.
“My dear, if this is what happens when one makes bread, I may have misjudged the entire undertaking.”
Teddy had abandoned all caution. He now sat beside the oven, his nose lifted and his attention fixed upon the door, as though the loaf might emerge at any moment without assistance.
A few minutes later, there was a knock. Madame Lefèvre, the concierge, stood in the corridor with a folder beneath her arm and a serious expression on her face. Behind her, the aroma of bread hovered at shoulder height before slipping past her into the kitchen.
“I have received reports of bread,” she said.
“What sort of reports?” asked the Balcony Gardener.
“An aroma has been detected on three floors.”
“That sounds very thorough,” said Madame Dupont.
“It has also been moving independently through the building.”
Madame Lefèvre entered the kitchen and looked toward the oven.
“I shall have to establish whether this is a private domestic activity or whether the apartment is being used as a boulangerie.”
“A boulangerie?” said the Balcony Gardener. “I have made one loaf.”
The three women considered the oven, while Teddy continued his silent vigil beside it.”
Madame Lefèvre opened her folder.
“The building regulations do not specify the number of loaves required to constitute a boulangerie. They are equally unclear about independently moving aromas.”
“Perhaps the bread is looking for company,” said Madame Dupont.
“That is not the legal point.”
Madame Dupont considered this.
“Could it be a very small boulangerie?”
“That might make matters worse,” said Madame Lefèvre. “A boulangerie must comply with certain regulations, regardless of size.”
The three women considered the oven, while Teddy continued his silent vigil beside it. Inside, the loaf rose a little higher.
The Balcony Gardener explained that the tomatoes and basil had grown only a few steps from the kitchen. She also explained that no money had changed hands and that the bread was intended solely for private consumption.
Madame Dupont pointed out that she had not paid for her tea either.
Madame Lefèvre made a note.
“Refreshments are being served?”
“It is marjoram tea,” said Madame Dupont, glancing into her cup.
“I do not believe anyone will attempt to pay for it.”
The Balcony Gardener gave her a look.
The bread was placed on a wooden board and allowed to cool for as long as anyone could reasonably bear.”
Outside the kitchen window, the marjoram rustled indignantly, although there was no wind. Teddy glanced toward the balcony, then at the teacups, before returning his attention to the oven.
At that moment, the timer rang. The Balcony Gardener opened the door, and a fresh wave of warmth and fragrance filled the kitchen. The loaf had risen beautifully. Its crust was golden, with little pieces of tomato showing through and basil scattered across the top.
The aroma rose above it in a delicate spiral. It drifted once around Madame Lefèvre’s folder, then settled contentedly over the kitchen table.
Even Madame Lefèvre’s official expression softened.
“For purposes of inspection,” she said, “I may need to examine a slice.”
The bread was placed on a wooden board and allowed to cool for as long as anyone could reasonably bear. The Balcony Gardener cut four slices. Madame Dupont’s was generously buttered.
Madame Lefèvre accepted hers without butter because she was still acting in an official capacity. Teddy received a small piece from the center, where the bread was soft and there was no crust to complicate matters.
For several minutes, nobody spoke. Teddy ate his piece, checked the floor for crumbs and then rested his chin upon the Balcony Gardener’s knee, gazing up at her with an expression of patient confidence in the existence of further slices.
Outside, the October sunlight touched the last tomatoes on the vines, and the marjoram stirred gently in its pot.”
On the balcony, the basil straightened proudly. The tomatoes shone in the fading October light, and the marjoram continued to mutter in its pot.
Madame Lefèvre ate the final crumb and closed her folder.
“I have concluded that this does not constitute a boulangerie.”
The Balcony Gardener was relieved.
“What does it constitute?”
Madame Lefèvre considered the question.
“An isolated horticultural baking incident, accompanied by an unusually purposeful aroma.”
Madame Dupont nodded approvingly.
“A very successful one.”
Before leaving, Madame Lefèvre accepted another slice for further examination. Madame Dupont asked for the recipe, although she made it clear that her own balcony was decorative and could not be expected to produce tomatoes. Teddy returned to his position beside the breadboard in case another inspection became necessary.
Outside, the October sunlight touched the last tomatoes on the vines, and the marjoram stirred gently in its pot. The Balcony Gardener poured herself another cup of tea and wondered aloud whether the next loaf might include marjoram.
Teddy looked at the bread, then at the teacup. He returned his gaze to the bread and held it there, expressing his preference with perfect clarity.
The marjoram shook its leaves, and somewhere in the corridor, the last trace of the aroma laughed.