In my last four months living in the States, I became that guy, the full-blown COVID-era sourdough evangelist. “Hey guys, check out the ear on this loaf.” “You ever tried baking sourdough?” “Bro, look at the blister on this crust.” I was insufferable, baking a loaf of bread every single day. Yes, every day. Possessed. A doughpe fiend.
At the time, I was working as a fitness instructor, where every working hour was a performance, a manager of energy, cheerleader, and drill sergeant all rolled into one. So when I’d come home to this silent lump of flour and water, just sitting there in the bowl, existing quietly and swelling slowly, it was like entering another world, a place where the energy didn’t go out but folded in. The dough didn’t need hype, feedback or applause. It just needed time and a little folding.
My schedule gave me enough flexibility to choreograph my day around its folds and fermentation. I’d dash home between classes, give is a quick fold, dash back to work, dash back home, tickle its tummy, rub its rump and then head back for a quick hour or two. It was the transformation I fell in love with, the way the dough morphed from grainy and sticky to smooth as a baby’s butt. Alive, responsive, charged with its own quiet energy. Each time I returned, my fingers would feel something entirely different.
Then there was the part after the bulk fermentation, when the dough dramatically releases itself from the bowl, drawing out the moment like a climax that never comes. It doesn’t just fall, it lingers, stretching and clinging like a bear waking from hibernation, reluctant, but nudged onward by the hunger of life. There’s a gentle resistance, a subtle protest, as if it’s not quite ready, but it surrenders anyway. A delicate, sacred yielding. Perfectly poised between tension and release, fully in tune with the way of the world.
It touches the table with a silent grace, then the rest slowly and reluctantly follows. Until it is all on the table, spreading like a slow moving lava, oozing outward, meeting a new kind of resistance, its own. Just the gentle tension of itself meeting the freedom with no sides. Watching it is like watching truth itself sprawl out onto the table. It moves to the music of gravity. A silent symphony in gluten and air. Stoic. Reluctant. Honest. And utterly in rhythm with the world.
And then, the final shape. A dance between the table, a scraper, my hand and the dough. Using torque and tension to form a tight-but-not-too-tight ball that then rests for around 10 minutes. During that time, it slowly begins to settle again. But this time, with the restraint of its circular shape, it spreads evenly with less freedom and more intention.
After the rest, I flick a little flour over the top, just enough to give it a delicate dusting. One smooth slide of the bench scraper underneath, and I flip it into my hand for its final fold. A deliberate sequence of folds, tightening the surface without overworking it, followed by one, final, burrito-style roll. Then into the wood pulp banneton it goes, puffy like a swollen burrito of gently coiled strength. I slip it into a plastic bag and send it to the fridge for an early bedtime, where the cold air gently slows its metabolism. Cold proofing allows the dough to rest and develop flavor. The yeast relaxes, the acids deepen, and the starches slowly begin to break down into simpler sugars, creating complexity. A slow motion fermentation.
After a chilly night in its flour-dusted sleeping bag, it’s ready for the sauna. I wake to the sharp beep of the oven, informing me of its blazing, 550°F internal temperature. I rub the goop from my eyes and empty the fully proofed dough onto a piece of parchment paper. Another light dusting of flour across the top, smoothed and massaged into the dough. Then comes the blade. A razor sharp enough to cut a fart. I draw it across the surface, quick and deliberate.
I remove the blistering hot dutch from the oven, open the lid and watch a burst of smoke escape like a sign of caution. I ease the dough into the scorching pot, careful not to deflate it, then seal it back up with the lid and back into the oven it goes. The timer is set for 20 minutes and the silent transformation from dough to bread is underway.
The intense heat from inside that sealed, searing-hot chamber, causes the gases trapped inside the dough, (carbon dioxide and water vapor), to expand rapidly. The dough balloons upward, and begins to open like a blooming flower from the score line.
Meanwhile, the steam trapped inside the pot creates a humid environment that keeps the outer crust soft during those first crucial minutes, allowing the loaf to rise freely without forming a hard shell too early. The starches on the surface of the dough gelatinize, which is what gives you that shiny, blistered crust later on.
Then comes the moment of truth: the 20-minute mark. I take off the lid and see how well I did. How’s its rise? How’s the ear? I set the timer for another 28 minutes, where the bread builds flavor, color and the crust caramelizes and hardens.
Once that final alarm goes off, its showtime. I slide the pot from the oven and plop the loaf onto the table, and then after a couple minutes, more magic happens.
It begins to sing.
Crackling, snapping and popping in a percussive ensemble of hot crust meeting cool air. Thermal contraction. The temperature difference between the hot interior and the cooling exterior causes the crust to contract, shift, and fracture slightly. Steam still trapped inside the loaf escapes through tiny fissures, and the outer shell responds with a crackling chorus. It’s the loaf’s way of exhaling
It doesn't last long, like a vacation, over too soon. All you can be is present for while it lasts.
After a patience-testing wait, they say it’s best to wait at least 1 to 2 hours after it comes out of the oven before slicing. BUT WHO GOT TIME FO THAT?!? Hopefully you can manage at least 30 minutes for the crumb to at least begin finish setting, the flavors to develop,the steam inside to redistribute the moisture, the starches firm up, and the complex fermentation flavors deepen, giving you that perfect texture and taste. Cut too soon and you gone have gumm crumb, aint nobody want gum crumb trust me. So i shot for 45 minutes, just long enough for the crumb to set and the crust to relax, a little at least. Then comes the crumbs, exploding off the blade like shrapnel from a grenade. The slice topples away from the loaf with the soft thunk of a falling domino.
First: butter. And lots of it. The kind of absurd amount where, if you were serving someone else, they'd silently think, Jesus Christ, that’s a lot of butter, but say nothing, because you’re handing them a slice of fresh, homemade sourdough.
Then, a generous pinch of flaky salt. Not that fine, iodized nonsense, but the real stuff, voluminous, crystalline, with texture and crunch, enough to catch the light and your attention.
At least one bite gets the salt treatment. The rest? Honey. But not the kind that comes from that sticky plastic bear. No, that thick, unfiltered, raw good-good. The kind you have to scoop with a spoon or knife, spreadable like softened butter, frothy and floral.
You slather it on with zero hesitation.
And then: bam.
So before we left for Switzerland, I put my energy and focus into finding my way into a bakery and found quickly that when you ask life for breakfast, it might just lay for you a trail of breadcrumbs. Nicole and I, having the self-appointed title of croissant connoisseurs, it didn’t take long for us to discover, tucked behind a retired firehouse in Bern’s Breitenrain district, the sourdough bakery, COPAIN.
As if by divine intervention (or luck) would have it, we were fortunate to be in the right place at the right time when the owner, Patrice, stepped outside for some fresh air. I introduced myself and shared my yearning to bake and in my delight, he invited me to join his world for a few weeks. It was one of those moments that made me pause and reflect in awe. I had thought it, went for it and now here it was. I came into the bakery eager to absorb whatever I could, a chance to develop my skills and deepen my relationship with the craft of baking and so I watched and I learned.
Production at COPAIN began on Wednesday with starter feeding and dough preparation as every single item utilizes the sourdough starter. However, i cam in on Thursdays and Fridays for the full-scale prep days, where most of the production was focused on pastries and laminated doughs: croissants, pains au chocolat, cardamom buns, sweet yeasted treats. Beautiful, delicate things. However buried in repetition, rolling, folding, cutting, stuffing. We’d prep hundreds of croissants, one tray after another, like clockwork. There were usually two or three of us working across two massive butcher-block tables, each the size of a small pickup truck. One half belonged to us and the other half was reserved for the head baker, who moved with precision and purpose.
He would guide huge sheets of dough through a laminating machine, carefully embedding cold slabs of butter between folds, building layer upon layer of that iconic flake. Then, he’d hoist the dough onto an oversized rolling pin, roll it out and unspool it onto his workspace. With a few swift, clean motions, he’d cut the dough into perfect triangles or rectangles, depending on the type of pastry, and move right on to the next batch.
We had one job: keep up. As soon as he handed off a pile of raw pastries, we were folding, shaping, and arranging them on trays to be proofed and baked. It was relentless. A steady rhythm.
The doors may open at 9 a.m., but the baking starts well before sunrise. By 3 a.m., the head baker is underway with the process of baking everything that’s been prepared, timing each batch to emerge as another batch goes in, choreographing the baking times and temperatures with the various items. By 8:45 a.m., everything is out and placed upon the counters cooling off, ready for the inevitable rush that begins when the clock strikes 9.
To be frank, I realized quickly that I wasn’t in love with making croissants, it felt more like an assembly line than working with alive dough. The magic I sought in baking didn’t live in their layers. What I loved was the process of making bread. Simple, slow-fermented, soulful bread. Sourdough. Dough that breathes and teaches you something about time, temperature, and communication. But that didn’t stop me from giving everything I had for I respected Patrice, he was a man of true quality and believed with sword and scale that the truth lies in quality. And so looked at the job more through the lens of how he treated people, customers and staff alike. His standards and his dedication. On chilly mornings, I watched Patrice set out self-serve thermoses of homemade chai and locally sourced Länggasse tea for customers, teas that elsewhere would cost six francs a cup. At COPAIN, they’re simply offered. Leftover croissant trimmings? He had us roll them into mini pastries for the kids. During our shifts, he’d always prepare a shared meal: a warm seasonal soup or a plate of thinly sliced prosciutto from the local butcher. Actions i wish to one day be able to do for my employees or patreons, actions i felt are how the world is suppose to be run by. So I kept showing up. I did what was asked of me and I did it to the best of my ability.
After a few months of being his extra hand, I allowed myself to hope. I thought maybe, if a position ever opened, he would think of me. I thought maybe I’d proven myself, if not as a pastry chef, then at least as someone who cared, who could be shaped and sharpened into something closer to what he needed. Someone worth investing in. Then one day, scrolling through Instagram, I saw his post. He was hiring. Looking for help. And my stomach slightly dropped. Maybe it was the language barrier. Maybe it was my lack of technical pastry skill. Maybe it was something I did or didn’t do.
Whatever the reason, I hadn’t made the cut.
In the months that followed, the rejection lingered—stinging deeper than I’d expected. Especially as I sent résumé after résumé into the void, collecting rejections like parking tickets, flailing helplessly in the Swiss job market.
I questioned everything: my skills, my value, myself. But that’s another story.
There’s a unique kind of heaviness that comes not just from being told “no,” but from not knowing why. From sensing that even your best effort wasn’t enough and not having the explanation of what was missing. Whatever Patrice’s reason for saying no was his alone. But the mirror had its own quiet response for me: You didn’t want the job anyway. You don’t even like making croissants. You just need money because you’ve got a kid on the way. It was true. As beautiful as they are, croissants never stirred my soul the way bread did. His kitchen ran more like a pastry factory than a bakery, and deep down, I didn’t want it. My heart wasn’t in the lamination or the butter blocks.
And I began to wonder, what if the subconscious is powerful enough to make decisions before we consciously do? What if, beneath the surface, deeper truths and subtle shades of who we really are and what we really want, are already shaping the world around us, beaming out into the ether like quiet radio signals? And in this case… maybe Patrice picked up on the frequency.
Yes, I was heartbroken. But alongside the grief came a kind of wonder. A curiosity about the quiet intelligence of the subconscious. Carl Jung believed the subconscious wasn’t just a private storage vault of memory and instinct, but a bridge, an invisible tunnel, leading to the collective unconscious: a vast, shared psychic architecture that exists beneath individual awareness. Imagine an invisible spider web, stretched right before our eyes across time and consciousness, with each one of us a node. The web is ancient. Tremble one thread, and the others feel it. We are connected, not metaphorically, but psychically, energetically, through a symbolic language older than any tongue. Archetypes, dreams, gut feelings, synchronicities: these are whispers from the web. Jung didn’t think we were isolated minds making choices, he saw us as parts of a greater whole shaped by forces we don’t fully understand. When something stirs in the depths of your being, an urge, a warning, a knowing, it may not come from you alone. It may rise from the web.
Modern neuroscience has found that brain activity begins before we think we’ve made a choice. What we believe to be conscious intent is sometimes just us catching up to what our subconscious already decided. The "you" who acts may not be the “who” you think.
And if you have time to continue this digression, lets entertain reincarnation, that perhaps this web is not just between people alive now, but between selves we've been before. Perhaps the instincts that guide us, the who we ares, are not only from this lifetime but from many. The baker who shapes dough by feel may be guided by hands that shaped it in a different century. The reason we fall in love with certain things, or certain people, so instantly, so deeply, may be because the thread connecting us is simply being tugged again.
So when I wonder whether my lack of enthusiasm for pastry revealed itself to Patrice before I ever said a word, maybe it did. Maybe that quiet passion, that love for dough, had spoken louder than I meant it to.
Regardless, my attempt to find a steady job ended with a “try again”.
In the meantime, it gave me some extra time to prepare for what was just around the corner.