translated and adapted by Diane Castiglioni
The land is covered with a lusty golden fleece. This wheat, which the wind gently combs, announces the harvest of bread. Because the land has long carried this treasure in her womb, it is also the time for confession.
In “The Woman with Hair of Gold”, one of the tales collected by Clarissa Pinkola Estés from her Magyaran aunts and analyzed in Women Who Run with the Wolves (Grasset, 1996), one sees something that has been long kept a secret. Allow me to reinterpret in my own way here.
A woman, in wanting to get rid of a country bumpkin who wants to force her to marry him, gives him some of her golden hair. Such an elegant way of putting him off. The simple man rushed to the market to sell it. And they laughed at him. The humiliation sends him back immediately to the one who played him thusly and he kills her. In storytelling, one is not burdened with the detours. To get rid of the woman with the hair of gold and his crime, he buried her in loose soil near the stream.
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Mais même les nouveaux venus, peuples récemment convertis à la panification, ne tarissent pas d’éloges à propos des mérites du pain à mie ou à croûte. Car il faut choisir son camp. Sachez, en effet, que la véritable « ligne Maginot » dans le monde de la boulangerie universelle est celle qui sépare les amateurs de « pain à croûte », les Latins, des amateurs de « pain de mie », les Anglo-saxons et que la compétition est très largement en faveur des seconds. Raison pour laquelle, même en France, Mecque du pain à croûte (obtenue grâce à la réaction de Maillard), les consommateurs ont tendance à réclamer un « pain pas trop cuit ». Ce qui irrite par dessus tout notre spécialiste du french bread, l’historien 
