When we were young
My Dad would bake bread every night. One loaf sultana, one plain. There were ten of us, of course, and at least 70% enjoyed a good breakfast. That meant porridge and two slices of toast. Like a laissez-faire economy, growth was promoted within our double brick walls.
If you were lucky you would be awake when it came out of the oven and get a slice of warm bread with honey and butter. It was years before the machinated bread makers were around so he would do all the arm-work himself.
He would use a wooden breadboard to knead the dough for what seemed like forever - as a young kid, wanting just a small bit to taste - but his willpower was always strong. A small scrap might come your way if you watched long enough. I would sit there, reading, leaning over the high bench on the tall chair, casually listening to the Radio National quiz, while Dad kneaded the bread for our breakfast.
The bread was always successful. It always tasted good. It didn’t matter what leaven state it had achieved. It was ours.
