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My Life In Bread
A Crusty Roll nibbled before purchase
A guilty trail of crumbs.
The Split Tin
Multi functional
Broken in pieces for bread and milk
To soothe a poorly tum.
Spread with butter and sprinkled with sugar
When there was no money for sweets.
Sliced thinly for a jam sandwich
Eaten in the garden with dirty hands.
And sliced thickly for the best toast ever
On return from school in Winter.
Slices cut into triangles for bread and butter pudding.
Plump sultanas sprinkled between layers.
The edges curled up. Sweet and crunchy.
A Cottage Loaf.
A coiffured head?
The top torn off.
Its warm dough elastic.
Two loaves in one.
Served in wedges with homemade soup or a slice of cheese.
Crumpets.
Their honeycomb sponginess oozing with melted butter.
My chin greasy with pleasure.
Flat Toasted Teacakes.
A rare treat for holidays only.
Savoured in the steamy interior of a seaside tea shop on a rainy day.
Harvest sheaves.
Don’t touch.
Bread of heaven.
Too beautiful to eat.
Sterile ‘Wonderloaf’ sandwiches for work.
Damp and squashed beyond recognition by lunchtime.
A couple of ‘Buns’ in the oven.
A crusty Baguette from the boulangerie.
Filled with juicy ripe tomatoes.
Eaten hungrily on the cross channel ferry.
With the salty wild wind blowing in our hair.
Earthy Wholemeal ‘doorsteps’ for the childrens lunch boxes.
Insides picked out.
Crusts discarded.
Fragile, sticky Banana Bread made by the boys.
Endless French Sticks.
Warm from the supermarket.
Bent before reaching home.
Eaten with everything.
An unnamed loaf.
With a hole inside.
Made by me.
Not for its flavour, but pride.
Loved by the birds.
Lardy Cake.
My husbands childhood treat.
Fed by his mother.
Banned by me.
Bread Pudding.
Stodgy and spicy.
Waste not. Want not.
Moving on to the more exotic.
Ciabatta, Focaccia, Naan and Chappati.
Bagel, Matzo, Vanocka, Grissini.
Pain de Campagne, Crostini, Bazlama.
Brioche.
With its boot polished top and vanilla scented inside.
Topped with perfumed apricot jam.
A bread-free period.
It was never going to last.
The discovery of an artisan baker shop.
Its shelves piled high with untried wonders.
A Crusty Roll nibbled before purchase
A guilty trail of crumbs.
The Split Tin
Multi functional
Broken in pieces for bread and milk
To soothe a poorly tum.
Spread with butter and sprinkled with sugar
When there was no money for sweets.
Sliced thinly for a jam sandwich
Eaten in the garden with dirty hands.
And sliced thickly for the best toast ever
On return from school in Winter.
Slices cut into triangles for bread and butter pudding.
Plump sultanas sprinkled between layers.
The edges curled up. Sweet and crunchy.
A Cottage Loaf.
A coiffured head?
The top torn off.
Its warm dough elastic.
Two loaves in one.
Served in wedges with homemade soup or a slice of cheese.
Crumpets.
Their honeycomb sponginess oozing with melted butter.
My chin greasy with pleasure.
Flat Toasted Teacakes.
A rare treat for holidays only.
Savoured in the steamy interior of a seaside tea shop on a rainy day.
Harvest sheaves.
Don’t touch.
Bread of heaven.
Too beautiful to eat.
Sterile ‘Wonderloaf’ sandwiches for work.
Damp and squashed beyond recognition by lunchtime.
A couple of ‘Buns’ in the oven.
A crusty Baguette from the boulangerie.
Filled with juicy ripe tomatoes.
Eaten hungrily on the cross channel ferry.
With the salty wild wind blowing in our hair.
Earthy Wholemeal ‘doorsteps’ for the childrens lunch boxes.
Insides picked out.
Crusts discarded.
Fragile, sticky Banana Bread made by the boys.
Endless French Sticks.
Warm from the supermarket.
Bent before reaching home.
Eaten with everything.
An unnamed loaf.
With a hole inside.
Made by me.
Not for its flavour, but pride.
Loved by the birds.
Lardy Cake.
My husbands childhood treat.
Fed by his mother.
Banned by me.
Bread Pudding.
Stodgy and spicy.
Waste not. Want not.
Moving on to the more exotic.
Ciabatta, Focaccia, Naan and Chappati.
Bagel, Matzo, Vanocka, Grissini.
Pain de Campagne, Crostini, Bazlama.
Brioche.
With its boot polished top and vanilla scented inside.
Topped with perfumed apricot jam.
A bread-free period.
It was never going to last.
The discovery of an artisan baker shop.
Its shelves piled high with untried wonders.
A walk on the wild side
Storm Doris has arrived. I love a good storm. She’s a cracker though sadly she’s cut my pink may tree down in its prime and the honeysuckle trellis has collapsed in a heap on the ground. Watching from the window I felt the need to be amongst nature….in the open. So I drove to Hughenden Valley to experience the strength of Doris’ fury for myself and take a somewhat calculated risk or two by walking among the trees.
I’m going for a walk on the wild side I announced. Be careful said the concerned one… what will I do if you get stuck up a tree… laugh probably I say. Byee.
Boy was it blowing. I picked my way through the early sturdy shoots of the thousands of daffodils spearing through the grass and set off with the wind howling along the valley. The sky a glassy bright white. The sun a watery yellow. Grey and white storm clouds raced overhead.
One intrepid dog walker in the far distance. Otherwise alone. Bliss.
Dried leaves gathered in flocks and took flight on the updraft like starlings rising into the late afternoon light. It was exhilarating! And as each gust grew, gathering in intensity until
it reached its crescendo, I laughed. Not much more and I’d be over.
Trees creaked, their heavy branches laboring with the effort of staying joined to the trunk.
The wind swept upwards over the valley floor rippling the grass like liquid silver.
The four tallest fir trees that stand at the entrance to the valley, like a group of nightclub bouncers astride the path, swayed alarmingly as the wind caught their heavily foliaged branches and turned them into dark green sails. Their huge trunks visibly flexing with the movement. The speed of the clouds overhead appeared to make the trees move more than they actually were.
I looked up, tilting my head back as far as it would go.
I reached out with my arms to counterbalance
the feeling of dizziness.
This was the moment. The right place. Despite those warning voices in my head, I was going to take a chance. A risk. It’s now or never. So what if I’m told I was mad to be here. Just do it! I strode forwards and stood between the trees. Twigs and pine needles landing all around me like dry rain. I laughed as I moved closer and leant against the trunk of the largest tree, trusting its immense size to stay upright. I could feel the life within it’s warm spongy bark. It was like being supported by a giant who knew better than I its own strength. The cold wind made my eyes stream…. This is being alive! With nobody around me, I whooped into the winds roar, laughing again. Yeeeee haaaaa!
A moment of total euphoria was mine.
Much later ……….… Help. Save me. I’m in the fourth beech tree on the left after the church.
Its dark now and everyone has gone home.
If you have any comments to make about the creative writing page please email me at beepearman@hotmail.co.uk
