"I suppose we're being unkind," he muses, not sounding particularly troubled by it.
"As it should be," he says, with a slight smile. "The world's gone wrong if a professional baker can't make better bread than a schoolteacher," he pauses, "or, rather, a mass-producer. I can't quite see Minerva up to her elbows in flour, somehow, although I suspect the dough would get up and run away if she walked in with a rolling pin." He looks regretful. "I never could do bread, myself."