Baking Bread on a Sunday Afternoon — Calm English Listening

Transcript

Introduction

A: Hello, and welcome.

A: This is slow, calm B1 English for a quiet afternoon or a quiet evening.

A: Today you’ll hear two gentle stories about baking bread at home.

A: Between them, we’ll review ten phrases. Then there will be some quiet practice and a slower final pass.

A: Here are a few of the phrases. Flour on the table. To knead the dough. To let it rise.

A: And a few more. Golden brown. Still warm. The butter melts.

A: If you miss a word, let it go. Another one will come.

A: You can practice the phrases in Recursio another day. The link is in the description.

A: For now, just listen.

A rainy Sunday

A: It is Sunday afternoon, and it has been raining since breakfast.

A: Not a storm. Just a slow, gray rain that taps on the kitchen window and runs down the glass.

A: The kind of day when nobody wants to go anywhere.

A: Joe is seventy-two. He lives in an old house with a big kitchen and a big wooden table.

A: For forty years, he has baked bread on Sunday afternoons.

A: First for his wife, then for his children, and now, mostly, for himself and his neighbors.

A: Today, his granddaughter Lily is visiting. She is twenty, and she is home from college for the weekend.

A: “Teach me,” she said at lunch. “Teach me how you make the bread. I want to make it in my apartment.”

A: Joe is very happy. Nobody has asked him that in a long time.

A: He takes out a big brown bowl. It is old and heavy, with a small crack on one side.

A: “This bowl was my mother’s,” he says. “It has made more bread than I have.”

A: He puts in flour, a little salt, and a teaspoon of yeast.

A: Then warm water, slowly, while Lily stirs with a wooden spoon.

A: Soon there is flour on the table, flour on the floor, and a little flour on Lily’s nose.

A: Joe laughs. “Good,” he says. “Now it looks like a real kitchen.”

A: When the mixture is a soft, sticky ball, Joe puts it on the table.

A: “Now we knead the dough,” he says. “This is the important part.”

A: He shows her. Push with the heel of your hand. Fold it back. Turn it a little. Push again.

A: Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn.

A: Lily tries. At first, the dough sticks to her fingers, and she makes a face.

A: “Keep going,” says Joe. “Slowly. Don’t fight it.”

A: After a few minutes, the dough changes. It gets smooth, and soft, and a little shiny.

A: It feels alive under her hands.

A: “Oh,” says Lily. “Now I understand.”

A: Joe puts the dough back in the bowl and covers it with a clean kitchen towel.

A: “Now we let it rise,” he says.

A: “For how long?” asks Lily.

A: “About an hour. Maybe a little more. The dough decides, not us.”

A: He puts the bowl in the oven. The oven is off, and only the little light is on.

A: “A warm oven,” he says. “The best place for dough on a cold day.”

A: Then there is nothing to do but wait.

A: Lily looks at her phone. Joe looks at the rain.

A: After a few minutes, she puts the phone face down on the table.

A: “Grandpa,” she says, “do you always just… wait?”

A: “Always,” he says. “You have to wait patiently. You can’t make bread rise faster by looking at it.”

A: So they wait patiently together.

A: Joe makes tea. Lily finds an old photo album on the shelf. They look at it together at the kitchen table.

A: Pictures of her mother as a little girl. Pictures of Joe with dark hair.

A: Pictures of the same kitchen, the same table, the same brown bowl.

A: “Who taught you?” Lily asks.

A: “Your great-grandmother,” says Joe. “In this kitchen. I was about your age.”

A: “Was she patient with you?”

A: Joe thinks about it. “No,” he says, and they both laugh.

A: After an hour, Joe lifts the towel.

A: The dough has grown. It is twice as big, round and soft, like a small white cloud.

A: Lily presses it gently with one finger, and the little hole stays there.

A: “It’s ready,” says Joe.

A: He takes the bowl out of the oven.

A: He shapes the dough into a round loaf and puts it on a tray.

A: He lets the loaf rest while the oven gets hot.

A: With a sharp knife, he makes three quick cuts on the top.

A: When he opens the door, hot air comes out into the cool kitchen, and Lily feels it on her face.

A: The bread goes in. The door closes.

A: At first, nothing happens.

A: Then, after about fifteen minutes, it begins.

A: The smell of fresh bread fills the kitchen. Then the hallway. Then, probably, the whole house.

A: It is warm and sweet and a little like toast.

A: Lily closes her eyes. “This,” she says, “is the best smell in the world.”

A: Joe doesn’t answer. He just smiles, because he has always thought the same thing.

A: After forty minutes, Joe opens the oven and takes out the loaf.

A: It is golden brown on top, and darker at the edges where the cuts opened up.

A: He knocks on the bottom with his knuckle. It sounds hollow, like a little drum.

A: “That means it’s done,” he says.

A: He puts it on a wire rack by the window to cool.

A: “We have to wait again?” says Lily.

A: “At least half an hour,” says Joe. “If you cut it too early, the inside can feel wet and heavy.”

A: This time, they wait. Lily puts two plates on the table, and Joe makes more tea.

A: After half an hour, Joe touches the loaf. It has cooled enough to cut.

A: Joe takes his big bread knife and begins to slice the bread.

A: The crust makes a soft cracking sound. The inside is white and full of small holes.

A: The bread is still warm. Steam comes out of it, very gently.

A: He puts two thick slices on two plates, and a piece of cold butter on each one.

A: They watch as the butter melts slowly into the warm bread.

A: Then they eat it, without saying a word.

A: Outside, the rain is still falling. The kitchen is warm. The windows are a little fogged up.

A: Later, Joe wraps half of the loaf in a clean towel.

A: “For your apartment,” he says. “So you remember how it should taste.”

A: Lily hugs him, and there is still a little flour on her sweater.

A: She says she will make bread next Sunday, in her small kitchen, on her own.

A: Joe hopes she will. He is almost sure she will.

A: In the evening, the rain stops.

A: Joe puts on his coat and takes a few slices across the street to Mrs. Kim, his neighbor.

A: She is ninety, and she always says he gives her too much bread.

A: She always eats every slice anyway.

A: When he comes back, the kitchen still smells like bread. The brown bowl is washed and dry on the shelf.

A: It will be there next Sunday.

Phrase review

A: Now, slowly, the ten phrases.

A: Flour on the table. A little flour spread on the table, so the dough doesn’t stick. Or just a mess of flour when you bake.

A: “After baking, there was flour on the table and on the floor.”

A: To knead the dough. To push, fold, and turn the dough with your hands until it is smooth.

A: “Knead the dough for about ten minutes.”

A: “My arms were tired from kneading the dough.”

A: To let it rise. To leave the dough in a warm place so it gets bigger.

A: “Cover the bowl and let it rise for an hour.”

A: A warm oven. An oven that is only a little warm, not hot. It is a good place for dough to rise.

A: “On cold days, I let the dough rise in a warm oven, with only the light on.”

A: To wait patiently. To wait calmly, without hurrying or getting upset.

A: “We waited patiently for the bus in the rain.”

A: “Good bread teaches you to wait patiently.”

A: The smell of fresh bread. The warm, sweet smell of bread that was just baked.

A: “The smell of fresh bread woke me up this morning.”

A: Golden brown. A warm, light brown color, like good toast or a baked crust.

A: “Bake the pie until it is golden brown.”

A: Still warm. Not hot anymore, but not cold yet.

A: “The cookies are still warm. Have one.”

A: “The bread was still warm when we cut it.”

A: To slice the bread. To cut the bread into thin or thick pieces.

A: “Can you slice the bread while I make the coffee?”

A: The butter melts. The butter gets soft and turns into liquid on something warm.

A: “Put the butter on while the toast is hot, so the butter melts.”

The first loaf

A: Far away, in a big city, a young man named Ben lives in a small apartment on the fourth floor.

A: Today, he is baking bread for the first time.

A: He found the recipe online. It said “easy.” He is not sure it is easy.

A: His kitchen is very small. There is flour on the table, flour on the counter, and flour on his black T-shirt.

A: He tries to knead the dough, but it sticks to everything.

A: He adds more flour. Then a little more. Then he stops, because the recipe says not to.

A: He puts the dough in a bowl, covers it with a plate, and lets it rise on top of the refrigerator.

A: It is the warmest place in the apartment.

A: Then he sits on the sofa and tries to wait patiently. It is harder than it sounds.

A: He checks the dough three times in the first half hour. It does not look any different.

A: He makes coffee. He reads a few pages of a book. He does not remember what he read.

A: Outside his window, the city is busy and loud, as always.

A: But in his small kitchen, something is slowly happening, and he can’t hurry it.

A: After an hour and a half, the dough has grown. Not a lot, but it has grown.

A: Ben feels proud, though most of the work happened while he waited.

A: He shapes it — not very round — and puts it in the hot oven.

A: Then he sits on the kitchen floor and watches through the little oven window.

A: After twenty minutes, the smell of fresh bread fills the tiny apartment.

A: His neighbor, Mrs. Ortiz, knocks on the door. “Are you baking?” she asks. “It smells like my mother’s house.”

A: Ben invites her in. They sit at the small table and wait for the loaf.

A: The loaf comes out a little flat, and a little too dark on one side.

A: But the top is golden brown, and when he knocks on the bottom, it sounds hollow, just like the recipe said.

A: After it cools a little, he slices the bread while it is still warm and gives the first piece to Mrs. Ortiz.

A: She puts butter on it and watches the butter melt.

A: “Not bad,” she says, with her mouth full. “Next time, less flour.”

A: Ben laughs. Next time. He likes the sound of that.

A: That night, before bed, he writes a message to his grandmother, who lives in another country.

A: “I made bread today,” he writes. “Not very good. But real.”

A: She answers in the morning with a photo of her own kitchen table, covered in flour.

A: “Now you are one of us,” she writes.

Quiet repetition

A: Now a few quiet questions. Try them in your mind, or just listen if you prefer.

A: Soon it is on the table, on the floor, and a little on Lily’s nose. What is it?

A: Flour. Flour on the table.

A: Push with the heel of your hand, fold it back, turn it a little. What are Joe and Lily doing?

A: They are kneading the dough.

A: Joe covers the bowl with a towel and leaves it for an hour. What does he do with the dough?

A: He lets it rise.

A: The oven is off, and only the little light is on. Where does Joe put the dough to rise?

A: In a warm oven.

A: “You can’t make bread rise faster by looking at it.” How do you have to wait?

A: You have to wait patiently.

A: It fills the kitchen, then the hallway, then the whole house. Lily says it is the best in the world. What is it?

A: The smell of fresh bread.

A: What color is the top of Joe’s loaf when it comes out of the oven?

A: Golden brown.

A: After half an hour on the rack, the bread is ready to eat. How does it feel when Joe cuts it?

A: It is still warm.

A: Joe takes his big bread knife. The crust makes a soft cracking sound. What is he doing?

A: He is slicing the bread.

A: A piece of cold butter on a warm slice. What happens to it?

A: The butter melts.

A Sunday kitchen, more slowly

A: Now the rainy Sunday again, very slowly. You don’t need to answer anything. Just listen.

A: It is Sunday afternoon. Gray rain taps on the kitchen window.

A: There is an old brown bowl on a big wooden table.

A: Flour, a little salt, yeast, and warm water.

A: Soon there is flour on the table, and a little on your hands.

A: You knead the dough. Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn.

A: Slowly, it gets smooth and soft under your hands.

A: You cover the bowl with a towel, and let it rise in a warm oven.

A: Now there is nothing to do but wait patiently.

A: You make tea. You look at the rain.

A: You look at old photos at the kitchen table.

A: The rain taps on the window. The kitchen clock ticks.

A: There is no reason to hurry.

A: After an hour, the dough is round and soft, like a small white cloud.

A: The oven gets hot. The bread goes in. The door closes.

A: Slowly, the smell of fresh bread fills the house.

A: The loaf comes out golden brown.

A: You let it cool for a while on the rack.

A: You slice the bread while it is still warm.

A: You put a little butter on a thick slice.

A: And you watch as the butter melts.

A: Outside, the rain is still falling. Inside, the kitchen is warm.

A: For a moment, there is nowhere you have to be.

Final phrases and goodbye

A: The ten phrases, one last time.

A: Flour on the table.

A: To knead the dough.

A: To let it rise.

A: A warm oven.

A: To wait patiently.

A: The smell of fresh bread.

A: Golden brown.

A: Still warm.

A: To slice the bread.

A: The butter melts.

A: That’s all for today. Thank you for listening.

A: If you’d like to practice these phrases later, the link is below.

A: Enjoy the rest of your day, or have a peaceful evening. Goodbye for now.