Bread used to take all day

Somebody got up before the house did. Flour on the table by six, dough knocked back by nine, and the rest of the day arranging itself around when the bread would be ready. Nobody called it a labour of love, because nobody called it anything. It was just Tuesday, and there'd be bread. You could smell it from the porch. There was a loaf on the counter under a tea towel, still too warm to be sensible about, and somebody cut the heel off for you before it had properly cooled. Buttered while it was still steaming, so it melted right through and ran down your hand. You ate it standing up, said thanks with your mouth full, and never once wondered what time somebody had to get up to make it. That's the bread we make. Flour, butter, yeast, salt, sugar, and a brush of butter over the top when it comes out. Five things, and most of a day. It won't last you two weeks. We're not sorry about it.

It still does

Our house smells like that most days now. Yeast and warm flour in the morning, then bread baking, and on a cookie day something sweeter underneath it all. You stop noticing after a while, right up until somebody comes in from the cold and stands in the doorway with their eyes shut.

Somebody still gets up early

Most mornings before the sun

The lights go on while it's still dark out. Coffee first, because nothing good happens before that.

Then the scale comes out. Flour from the bin, weighed to the gram, salt, sugar, and the yeast into warm water to wake up. A few minutes and you can smell it from across the room.

The oven comes on. Tins get greased and set out in a row. The dough goes under a cloth in the warmest corner of the kitchen and takes as long as it takes.

By the time the rest of the house is properly awake, the first loaves are already in. It's a lot of work for bread that's gone in a day. Nobody here seems to mind.