baker of Miskowitz, of Miskowitz
“I bake the bread for Miskowitz, just as Widow Johanka taught me. My hands are always full of dough.”
Things Adam Ford had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
The Wednesday before Whitsun, at Compline
The weather is turning warm and the dough rises too fast if I do not watch it. My left hand is stiff today. I must have slept on it poorly. The loaves are a little smaller this batch, but the rye is dear with the soldiers on the roads. A man must make do.
Nota scribaeHe stared at his flour-dusted boots the entire time he spoke of his hand.
The Tuesday after Saint George, at Vespers
I took a soft loaf up to Godfrey today. His gout has him trapped in bed since Easter, poor soul, and he cannot chew a crust anymore. Constance poured me a cup of ale after, and Elsbeth glared at me from the street. Christ almighty, a man cannot eat a piece of bread in peace.
God bless you for feeding him, Adam. And ignore that sour old tailor. Her Flemish wool was ruined by her own clumsy hands.
I heard that, Constance. You tipped that pitcher of dark ale on purpose out of jealousy and you know it!
The Monday of Holy Week, at None
Scraping the wooden troughs clean takes longer than it used to. The chill in the stone floor creeps right up my back. Widow Johanka always said a baker's work is in his shoulders, and she was right. Up in heaven she doesn't have to carry these flour sacks. I asked the village herbalist for a salve.
I can rub some warm goose fat into it if you come by the alehouse tonight, Adam. You look exhausted lately.
Nota scribaeHe rubbed his left shoulder constantly while dictating this.
The eve of Saint Gregory, at Prime
This morning a heavy flour cart came from the mill, and my blood ran cold seeing it slip in the mud. It reminded me of the winter of ninety-nine. Sakra, my hand aches just thinking of it. But the flour is safe, and the ovens are hot. Come buy your bread, it is a hard enough Lent.
I will buy two loaves, provided they are the proper size today. We are all feeling the pinch.
Nota scribaeDictated with white flour on his nose.
The day after Candlemas, at Terce
Three winters now since the coughing sickness took Widow Johanka. I lit a candle for her. She was the only mother I knew, and she taught me how to judge an oven's heat by the hair on my arm. I try to keep the business running exactly as she taught me. The Lord rest her soul.
She was a fine woman of business. There are too few of us in Miskowitz who understand trade.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Your loaves are shrinking again, Adam. If it is the soldiers' fault, why does the miller's flour cost me the same?
The yeast was weak, Elsbeth. I promise it will be better tomorrow.