Woman cannot live by bread alone

…but I’m going to give it a pretty good shot. It’s fair to say that WWOOFing, and this summer over all, has been an unqualified success. Organic vegetables and goats’ cheese in the Pyrenees, and now baking bread in Normandy – this is the way to live. My only regret is that I didn’t do it years ago!

Am starting with the current experience first as it is the freshest. Arrived at the Les Copains bakery on Monday and met the team: Erik (Dutch), Seth (Canadian) and Baboosh (a Black Lab). Am staying in a little attic above the bakery – but on a double bed with a real mattress, this is luxury!

Now my days move to a different rhythm again from the past few weeks. Was up at 5am yesterday to weigh and shape the dough we kneaded the night before, into loaves and baguettes, which are then set aside to rise. Make the ritual pot of Earl Gray tea, the bag dunked directly into the jug. Erik puts on the rock and roll and grooves his way around the kitchen. Cut out the mini pizzas and top with local goats’ cheese, organic tomatoes and emmenthal. Seth picks up the wooden paddle and shoves the loaves 3 or 4 at a time into the oven. The baguettes are more fragile but he does it with the ease of long practice. I chop the brioche dough (peppered with chunks of apples from the orchard) and stuff into muffin tins. Mix the financiers (butter, sugar, eggs, ground almonds and flour) and dollop into their tins.

By now it’s 8am, and we rip open the first baguette out of the oven and slather it with butter and honey. Erik pours the coffee as the bread starts coming out of the oven. They sort and pack the loaves into big wooden crates and load into the van. I have a moment to get changed out of the baggy t-shirt they lent me into some more appropriate gear, and I sweep the floors quickly, and then we are off to the weekly organic market in Honfleur.

It’s a gray morning, fog has rolled in from the channel and shows no signs of lifting. But the market is bustling at 9am, all the stalls are already set up when we arrive. We jump out of the van and quickly fold out tables, and unload crates. The clients start arriving before we have even finished, many of them regulars, who wait patiently until the bread has been set out, and then they really have first choice. I am in charge of putting out the little wooden price tickets and get mixed up between complet and demi-complet.

After the first rush eases, Erik turns to me and says “I have to go park the van, are you ok for a bit?” I nod mutely, and turn to my public. I have to check the tickets occasionally but then it starts to get easier. I can even add up two amounts and produce a total in French without muttering the English under my breath. Then one woman orders several different loaves and multiple biscuits, brioches and tarts. The panic shows on my face, and the next customers, a couple of men, take pity on me and one whips out his smartphone to use the calculator function. By the time Erik gets back, I am flying. Bonjour Madame, que desirez-vous? Et avec ceci? Cela vous ferait 5,80. C’est moi qui vous remercie, bonne journée. Five years of living in France and I can speak fluent market, right up to the little twist you put on the top of the paper bag…

In the lulls we chat to the other stallholders, the bolshie fruit and vegetable woman, the cider specialist who opens a bottle for us to share, and the goats’ cheese seller who brings over some of her faisselle (like cottage cheese, but fresh) with herbs and garlic, which we spread on bread and pass around. I’m never going to be able to eat Boursin ever again.

I take a break for half an hour to wander around Honfleur. I pick up a financier to take with me and bite into it looking out at the gray harbour. My brain goes into meltdown – it’s SO good. I’ve never tasted anything so fresh. I can feel stars dancing behind my eyes and my tastebuds lift off into orbit. This whole experience has ruined me forever – I will never get any pleasure from anything unless it’s organic, direct from the producer and freshly picked-squeezed-baked etc.

Eventually the bread disappears and the stream of people slows. Erik goes to get the van and I manage to sell the last half-loaf to one little old lady who didn’t get an early start like the rest of them. We fold down the tables and fold ourselves into the van. I fall asleep as we drive out of Honfleur and wake up as we get home. I take the end of a loaf and slice fresh tomatoes onto it. They’re so good they don’t even need salt. I eat and fall into bed. It’s 2pm and I’ve been up for 9 hours already. Siesta time.


In the afternoon Erik goes off to make deliveries and Seth goes horse-riding. At 6pm Thierry, the assistant, turns up to start the dough for the next day and I give him a hand. We knead for an hour and a half and then it’s done. I am completely beat but blissfully happy…


Had a sleep-in today, only had to get up at 7.30 to do pizzas and sablés (like shortbread but slightly less butter). More kneading this morning and feeding the sourdough starter, for a change we are baking tonight for tomorrow’s market. Starting again at 7pm – but for a bit of light relief this afternoon Seth took me to his friend’s cider farm for a degustation. She showed us the old cider press and the new machines they use now, and walked us through the whole process. The tasting itself started with the cider (sec, demi sec and doux) and went via the Pommeau (aperitif) through the 5, 10 and 15 year old Calvados. I know what you’re thinking, how am I even writing this now, but the glasses were very small. I still left with a few bottles, but they may not make it all the way back to New Zealand!

More bulletins as time permits but if you want to see ALL the photos so far, they are here.