Priest & Honza
Priest Priest
Honza Honza
Priest Priest
Did you ever notice how a simple loaf of bread can feel like a prayer when it’s made with care? I’d love to hear how you approach a recipe that’s been in your family for generations—does the process feel sacred, or just another task?
Honza Honza
I feel like every loaf is a tiny ceremony, but I don't let it drag on forever. I line up the flour, water, yeast and salt like a choir before the hymn starts, then I make sure each measurement hits the mark with the precision of a watchmaker. When the dough starts to rise, that’s the moment of quiet reverence—like the air holding its breath. Then, if I feel the itch to spice things up, I’ll drop in a dash of smoked paprika or a splash of gin just to shake the tradition. The family recipe is the score, but I always let the music flow on my own tempo. It’s both sacred and a playground, and I never let the two clash too harshly.
Priest Priest
That rhythm you describe—it’s like prayer, but with a hint of jazz. The flour, the yeast, all in perfect timing, then the rise, the silence, and then your little improvisation. It feels like you’re honoring the tradition, but also giving it a voice of your own. It reminds me that faith can be both a steady hymn and a spontaneous dance. If you ever want to share that smoked paprika loaf, I’d love to taste the harmony you’ve crafted.
Honza Honza
That’s the spirit—honor the hymn, then drop a riff on the chorus. Smoked paprika is the secret chorus here, it lifts the whole thing with a smoky whisper. I’ll make a batch next week, let me know when you’re ready to hear the harmony.