Outside the window flurries of snow dance and twirl on the cold, spring air. Inside the smell of rising bread fills the house, a luscious, almost tangible aroma that I breathe deeply in through my nostrils, and savour with closed eyes. As the cobs are placed into the oven and the soup simmers merrily on the hob (today a rough hewn mixture of parsnip, celery, barley and potato), I'm taking a few moments to reflect on the making of bread.
The making of bread is an enjoyable experience, a few moments of simple effort interspersed with long pauses for reflection and the performance of other tasks. The first step is the preparation of the yeast; a mug filled with water at the temperature of the blood, a laden teaspoon of brown sugar and another of dried yeast. It stands on the side, already beginning to bubble, and fill the air with its promising scent. I take a bowl, a perfect hemisphere with a diameter little wider than the stretched span of my hand. Strong, plain flour is sifted in until the bowl is half filled, and a generous pinch of ground sea-salt is sprinkled and mixed in. I press two fingers into the centre of the bowl, shape a well and pour virgin olive oil into it. The viscous liquid makes a merry gurgling as it pours from the bottle and settles, gleaming with its amber iridescence, amidst the pale flour.
A moment later the still warm water, frothing with yeast and its sweet scent hanging heady on the air, is poured over the top. The liquid fills the well then spreads across the top of the flour, a murky tide mingled with olive oil that encroaches on the shore of flour until it laps against the sides of the bowl. My hands plunge in, first fingers then thumb and palm. The warm liquid follows the paths made by my fingers, which squeeze and knead the dry mixture with the wet until a pliable dough is formed.
I turn the dough out onto the worktop, lightly sprinkled with a little flour whose tumble through the air is reminiscent of the snow that tumbles beyond the pane of glass. My hands and arms, with the weight of my body behind them, knead and fold the dough, stretching it and aerating it. After a timeless moment that could have been five minutes or half an hour, I lose track of time when in the kitchen, the dough turns softer under my pounding hands. A few more folds for luck and then I shape the dough into a ball, return it to the floury bowl and drape a tea-towel over the top. The boiler cupboard is warm, and I place the dough aside there to rise.
An Hour and more Later
Whilst the dough rose I turned my attention to the preparation of soup. Then, the oven set to a middling heat and two baking trays greased with butter. Now, the scent of the yeast and dough fills the warm air of the kitchen. In the boiler cupboard the dough has risen, almost double its size and soft and pliable to my hands. On the work surface, I knead it once more, before shaping it into a rough cylinder. I take my knife and slice it breadth-wise in half. The halves are quartered then the quarters sliced into eight. Each piece is taken, kneaded and squeezed into a round cob and placed onto the greased baking tray. Finally I smear a little more butter over the top of each of the cobs, and slip the trays swiftly into the heated oven and wait.
Twenty minutes, perhaps twenty-five, and the surface of the bread cobs has turned to a pale, golden brown. The sweet scent of yeast has been overwhelmed by the luscious, scrumptious, tangible, delightful, soul-fulfilling scent of fresh made bread. I take the cobs from the oven, pausing to deeply breath in the scent every few moments, and tumble them out onto the cooling rack. The soup simmers, its heady scent mingling with the bread and enticing me to sumptuous feast.
