Something about the Panetone struck me as something bigger than the bread itself - it always is.

Just the day before we had talked about how sad we were that there was never any Panettone left for us to try. Such a wonderful Italian Christmas bread, one that's light airy crumb breaks the rules of a typical brioche. So absurdly celebratory, like everything that seems too good to be true finds its place in a Pannetone. Yet the process is so tedious, requiring its own sourdough starter at least three days of tender care, and a whole night hanging upside down. It's a great representation of delayed gratification - and as bakers we could appreciate the effort required. But we didn't make this Pannetone. It appeared like a magical Christmas gift on the table with a note that read "pour partager :)" on a scrappy paper towel. I knew it was Fred who gave it to us but I don't think the others did so I stayed silent. We decided to responsibly finish all our work first, saving the beautiful domed breads to the side as a reward for the end of the day. I kept noticing people peering over, as if to check that they hadn't disappeared - like when you fall asleep in the back of the car and your parents carry you to bed. You keep your eyes shut tight to claim the rare gift but peek open secretly once or twice to make sure it's happening. Some of us tried to appear indifferent but I knew we were all early waiting to tear into them.

I noticed Fred pass by as we huddled around Elodie's table as she cut into them to reveal the fruit embellished insides. He stayed in the doorway, smiling a kind of sneaky smirk, like Santa watching the morning unfold from outside the window, and slinking away before getting caught. He had the look of a proud parent taking in a rare moment when time stops - happy just to see us happy - even if he got no credit for his kind deed. I wanted to thank him for the Pannetone, and in those few words somehow convey my gratitude for his whole being - an existence and life I only knew a sliver of - like when a flame turns blue for an instant before retrying to its consistent orangey hue. I wanted to thank him for his smile, for the one class he taught when he told me my scoring was nickel and I felt complete, for when he assured us that learning to make bread was like raising children, that in time we would come to get it right and it just required patience. Mostly though, I wanted to thank him for turning us into kids all over again in that short moment. I've only known these people for three months but I felt us all shrink back into children, consumed by the overbrimming joy and ease of Christmas magic. Pure indulgence in a bread we didn't labor over or get graded on, reminded of why we started. Even as I washed the sticky dough off my hands to try a piece, Elodie fed it straight to me from her hands so I didn't have to miss out for one second. I wanted to thank him for bringing back this lighthearted innocence. But how do you thank someone you hardly know with your whole heart and soul? How can those words capture the gratitude that floods from my fingertips like a brimming light guiding me everyday? How do I thank anyone enough? The cashier who smiled at me in the grocery line? The stranger who crossed the street at the same time as me? The receptionist at school who asks me how I am everyday and I can tell every single time that she actually cares? Can I look in your eyes and say I see your wonder after one introduction? I don't say it. Instead I'm Madame Chocolat making you laugh when you're homesick. Instead I ask to take a picture of your work as inspiration for my own - which you don't understand because you don't see them as special. Instead I help carry your boxes to your car, even if it means I'll get rained on and have to take a couple round trips. Instead I say bonjour every time you enter the class with your springy demeanour ( you told me your back hurts from old age just last week). I've been meaning to ask you since the first day how you've kept your love for the métier - how your energy is remains so light and youthful. Instead I joke with you on the most important day and let you take any bread you want before making my pick. Instead I apologise to you - not out of remorse, but sympathy for your sleepless night, or aching knees, or whatever wound you can't seem to share. I'm sorry - not for hurting you, but for the fact that you were ever hurt. I don't explain my culturally confusing apology. Instead I bring you bread - because it's all I know to do - it's the only thing that can speak for me. But you have your own bread, an abundance of it like me, so I don't know how to show you. Should I cry or shout or build a memorial of my appreciation and stay perched up there for everyone to see, waving the flag that says I care? All this somehow gets lost until I don't say anything at all. Do you realise what you did by bringing us Pannetone? Did you feel the world grow lighter? I'm not sure why I caught your smile - I don't think anyone else did, but I hope you know you brought more than just Panetone, at least for me. Just know that if I ever bring you bread, I'm trying to bring you that tangible, immaterial, mystical warmth, I'm trying to say thank you.