Hey Coco, I’ve read an old tale about a bakery that once served as a hidden temple—ever wondered if a loaf could hold a story like that?

I’ve baked a few loaves that felt almost ceremonial—like the night when the village baker’s dough rose in the moonlight and the scent turned the streets into a quiet chant. It wasn’t a ritual in the strict sense, but the rhythm of kneading, the slow rise, and the crackling oven seemed to echo some ancient prayer. It was as if the dough held its own secret rite, just waiting to be spoken aloud.