It’s time to break bread. Now, if reader you find yourself in front of a farmer, let’s say, at an altar, anytime soon, listen carefully. You may not know it, but unknowns to you, he is going to craftily get you to bake him fresh bread every second day. You heard it here first.
At first, there’s outrage. ‘What d’ya mean your mother bakes you fresh bread?’
Then there’s denial. He couldn’t possibly want me to bake brown soda from scratch?
Followed by compromise. Look darling, this bread company delivers really delicious bread. And it’s fresh.
He says nothing (Watch out for the quiet ones).
Ok, I’ll try it once.
This is tasty. What if I were to add some honey for a bit of sweetness.
It’s missing something. One Egg.
And colour. A spoon of sunflower oil.
He still says nothing. There is, it seems, the beginning of a wry smile. And a habit is forming.
A really hot oven and the smell of baking bread rises above the noise and farm odours. A dish of water at the bottom of the oven and the bread is moist.
Eight years have passed.
Then comes the little voice that says ‘I love it when you put brown bread and jam in my lunch box.’
And the ‘don’t you make a lovely loaf’ from visitors.
‘Mommy bown bed.’
When the milk cheque is seeping out through the holes of the purse, it’s less expensive and it might just keep the doctor’s bills down.
And then there are the days with three children and getting to a shop when you live in the middle of a field seems impossible and you realize it’s just easier to put on the oven.
If you let the a jug of milk out for a couple of nights, it’s butter milk and that’s when your bread is so soft it brings a tear to the farmer’s eyes.
And then, you know he’s got you. Listen carefully to those vows. He might just whisper ‘In sickness as in bread’ while you stand there grinning and nodding at the cat who just got the cream.
Girl in Wellies 