Timer rings. Bread is brought out of oven, steaming. Dust flour hands wrap crusted softness in cotton. Taps hollow, turned onto oak board to rest.
I’ve eaten so much bread. Sliced, broken, tasted different loaves in different flavours with different faces. Milled white thick and fluffy Romanian slices with local cheese. Swedish rye, London sourdough with avos and eggs, Mamma’s overnight rolls, dad’s dark malt wedge.
Find it comforting to have this simple food shared simply in its own way from its own place. Not really more profound a thought than that. Simply satisfying hunger holds enough of its own gold weight.
Here’s my start at sourdough (if you don’t see another pic of this process you’ll know things probably did not completely work out with the starter...).