It's Good Friday and I have committed myself to making some hot cross buns to take to Wine Circle tonight. "Use your bread-maker!" cried my niece, "Buy some and pretend!" said my daughter. "No, indeed, I shall do things properly", I replied with dignity.
The dough is now rising in the airing cupboard.
There are times when I can't quite comprehend how I used to cope. In the late 1970s and early 1980s I was working full-time, had two children, took in foreign students, made most of my and the girl's clothes, cooked fresh food daily, did a little extra sewing to make ends meet.
In addition to all that, walking the dog and doing the housework, I also used to make bread regularly, about twice a week. Before going to bed at night, I'd measure out the ingredients, make and knead the dough. I bunged it in a bowl, covered with a wet cloth, protected by plastic, put the lot in the airing cupboard and went to bed.
The next day, before getting the children dressed or going to work, I'd get the dough, which would by now be huge and spongy, knock it back and bake the loaf. Mostly the bread was pretty good, too. But I must have got up at about five am to do it and can't now imagine how I did it.
I think bread-making was abandoned when I took the COP training job as I was now travelling all over the south-east.
I must say I found the hand-kneading of the dough rather therapeutic and am looking forward to the results. Although I doubt whether they'll be a good as the ones Paul's cousin Roger made, a picture of which was proudly posted on Facebook.
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