I've done it since I was young and it gives me even more pleasure these days, now that my eyesight is failing. A feast of scent, touch and taste. Measuring out the ingredients, the sensuous kneading of the dough, the fabulously warm enveloping smell.
It's a comforting ritual too. A well-rehearsed process that my hands can now perform almost automatically and allow my mind to wander. I find increasingly that it wanders to the past; memories of days and their weather and houses long-gone and conversations and lovers and sadness. But in my head, I can perfect the past - do what I should have done, say what I should have said.
Recently, I have even started milling my own flour from wheat that I grow on the allotment. I like the cycle of seasons and sun and rain and growth.
I love baking bread.
Now, where are my glasses?