Miche, a bread I’ve made for years, reminds me of my mother’s accounts of growing up in a mountain village in France’s Var region. She would often recall the way  each family would make a large miche and bake in the communal village oven, loaves that lasted days. My mother said she always liked the bread after a few day’s, as it would get crustier. As it staled, it was dipped into a soup, something I do quite often, as it’s a handed down memory through her story.

This miche is dedicated to her stories and because she’s my mom.