Nana’s homemade bread

When you have lived together as long as Grandad and I have, one develops little strategies for dealing with the inevitable irritations that crop up. My mother used to iron away her stress, the thud of the iron serving as an early warning to us kids of disharmony in the ranks. Ironing was certainly preferable to swigging the cooking sherry like some of the mothers I knew. And as my father was a prickly character, it meant we were assured a constant supply of freshly ironed clothes. Grandad is a man of few words so tiffs are rare – he is more likely to glower meaningfully and stomp off to the shed; whereas I bake bread.Kneading – the physical action of making lumpy dough turn smooth and silken – is pure therapy and the smell as it bakes should be available on prescription. Finally, there’s the joy of slicing that first warm, crusty slice. And all is right with the world once more. But I don’t only bake bread when I’m cross; I make it because it pleases me so much. Hand-made bread is utterly different to store-bought in both texture and flavour and is particularly good toasted and topped with thick slices of Grandad’s heirloom tomatoes.