Like a pet it is, the bread I make. A constant fixture that I bake. I never tire of making it, watching the rising and kneading the mix. At night I start, by day break its full, bloated and ready to be halved in two. The tins make toasting easier and sandwiches ripe, in winter while the garden is eating and nitrogen is fixing, and the chickens are now laying and seeds yet to be sown, in the kitchen, cold weather, or winter, rain or hail, the bread is baking, or rising, or mixing. We are cutting and slicing and buttering and dipping. Spring is almost here so seeds to be chosen, bread is being eaten, seeds to be chosen.

Wholemeal and rye and white loaf.