Pan Y Alma, Con Poco de Café

*** Pan Y Alma,
Con Poco de Café ***
-Puebla, Mexico
(#StorytellingSalem #999,980 out of 1mil:)

🎶So I’ve been travelling across the Country—
Town to town,
City to city,
State to state;
Sitting down in random locations—
Across the globe— with a whiteboard in my haaaand—
I been asking folk:

“What’s yor Story?”🎶

And when I was in Puebla, Mexico; a woman in a bright yellow shawl, with flour on her hands & a half-tied apron around her waist, looked & read what was written upon my whiteboard; and then started to share:

⸻

“You askin’ para stories- mijo? Bueno.
I give you una buena leyenda:

So, I run a little bakery—not far from here, down Calle 4 Norte.
Place -pequeña,
tres mesas,
uno oven.
We make pan dulce, conchas, bolillos… sometimes tamAles if I’m feelin’ gEEEnerOUSS.

One day, this young man comes in. Not from here— eyes darting around— like he’s looking for something.
Doesn’t say much; muy tímido.
Just sits in -la mesa- in the corner;
asks for a small coffee and some pan.
I give him both- on the house.
Por qué? I don’t know.
Sometimes you just fEEEEl it.

He comes back next day. Then next dia y dia y dia. Always same seat. Never says much. But one day… I see he’s sketchin’. Little notebook, all these drawings of my pan.. Detailed.. Like… Arte., you know?

I go over. I say, ‘Oyeee- Mijoooo, you drawin’ my breeaaadd?’

He gets nervous like some caught saltamonte. Says: ‘lo siento-lo siento/ sorry-sorry, he’ll stop.’

I tell him: ‘No-no-nooo: You keep goin’. But next timee, show me tambienn; me gusta cómo bailas con la vidaa’

So we start this thing. Cada semana, he brings in a new sketch—concha with steam, bolillo with crumb… even a mollete with the cheese meltin’ off the side; so detailed- I thought, AI must have used HIM, as a teacher.

Couple months later, he brings me a flyer. Says he’s got a small gallery show in the Centro Histórico. I go, dressed nice. Nervous like it’s mi boda.

Y there, in the corner of the gallery—whole wall of my bread.
Mi cocina-
My oven-
My hands, drawn like I’m some kinda saint.
Kneeding, folding, stretching & shaping;
an ol’ woman like me with my red bandana holding back my hair- sitting (and waiting for the oven to finish) on my stool; as my apron and hands were covered in flour.
My kitchen’s sandy brown tile like la tierra mexicana making up the walls behind me with the only light being the fire from the oven; as the entire room had shadows cornering in.

He calls the collection “Pan y Alma.” Bread and Soul.

People ask who I am. I just say, ‘I’m the one who bought a stranger- un poco de café.’”

⸻

She wiped her hands on her apron, gave a soft chuckle under her breath, and said she had to get back before the bolillos burned.

And iiiii?
I stayed there by the plaza fountain,
whiteboard tilted toward the afternoon crowd,
still asking:

“What’s yor Story?”
waiting for the next person to walk my waaaaaay.

(#StorytellingSalemstory #999,980
Poster Provided by: WhatsYorStory.com )