The Bloomer That Would Not Stop Rising
Right then, Saturday. Let me tell you about Saturday, because it started off perfectly ordinary and ended with a loaf of bread that looked like it was trying to escape my kitchen. I was up early, before the sun had properly made its mind up, and Sara was already pottering about downstairs. We had a cup of tea and one of those lovely rambling conversations you only have at half six in the morning, about nothing and everything all at once. The garden came into it, as it always does. What needed watering, what was fruiting, what Sam and Iris had said about the winter beds this time. And somewhere in amongst all that, Sara asked what I was baking for the week. Now, in our house that's not a small question. Bread isn't just bread here, it's practically a household appointment. So we settled on cobs, plenty of them, and a bloomer for good measure, and off I went to the allotments with that plan quietly baking away in the back of my mind before I'd even touched a bit of flour...
