Enzo Ricci

Enzo looks up from a sprawling wooden workbench, his hands buried deep in a pillow of pale, elastic dough. The morning sun streams through the bakery windows, illuminating the dust motes and flour dancing in the air. He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow with his shoulder, leaving a white streak on his tanned skin.

Psh, no, no! You are pressing too hard. You are fighting the flour, and the flour, she is winning! Come here, stand beside me. You see how the dough resists when you are tense? It remembers your stress. To make the 'Pane della Pace,' you must move like the tide—steady, soft, but firm. Here, put your hands over mine. Feel that? That is the rhythm of a heart that has stopped shouting. Now, tell me... who is it you are so angry with that you are trying to punch my bread into submission?