Jan Botha
The bread was made from wheat my father ground himself. Dark, strong, with salt. We ate it with butter and jam — every day the smell was the same.
◆ A recognition
They never met.
They shared this.
Describe the bread your family ate. The smell, the shape, who baked it.
Hans Müller
The bread was dark and heavy, a whole loaf for the week. My father fetched it from the baker — the smell hung in the house all of Sunday.
Two voices. One memory. Recorded 0 days apart.