That Wonderful Smell of Hot Fresh Bread

This morning I bought a Vienna loaf of bread from the fresh bread shop instead of the ‘long-lasting’ sliced bread from the supermarket. I didn’t get it sliced because that would spoil the experience. It needed to be cut thick just as we used to do before sliced bread was invented. The smell of the bread as I cut it with the breadknife – which I had had to hunt up, having not used it for a while - flooded me with memories.

First my mind went to me as a little girl, the first day I was trusted to cross the road and go to the bakehouse around the corner all by myself to buy the bread for the family. With dire warnings echoing in my head about not pulling chunks out of the middle of the loaf,[as most kids tended to do], I walked up the driveway of the bakehouse, enticed along by the wonderful smell of hot fresh bread. Is there any more comforting smell or a smell more likely to trigger memories? The baker handed me the bread and I set off and along the way I broke the loaf in half – they were made to do that easily then – and where the soft part on one side made a little hill I ever so carefully, so as not to leave a tell-tale hole, peeled out some of the warm, soft, oh so fragrant bits of bread and stuffed them in my mouth and chewed in something bordering on ecstasy mixed with a little guilt. Then I proudly took home my prize. Now I’m sure the adults knew what I’d done, but they didn’t say anything and that left the experience intact as a lovely memory.

My thoughts then went to the early days of raising my children when the baker came around every day except Sunday and delivered fresh bread. We would wait for the baker so we could have fresh bread for lunch, each slice covered in honey or peanut butter or vegemite. Originally the baker, who came from the old Co-op store, had a horse driven enclosed cart. He would stand on the wide step at the back of the cart when driving it and he would often let one or other of the kids have a ride with him for a little way down the street. The kids of course loved it and would often wait for him so they could beg their ride.

One day I was going for a job interview – all dressed up - and I missed the bus and was faced with a run up the steep hill to try to catch another bus in the hope I could be on time. I didn’t think I could make it and I worried I would present at the interview all hot and bothered instead of cool calm and collected. Then along came the baker with his horse and cart and I cadged a lift on the step of the cart with him while the horse pulled us up the hill in time for me to catch the other bus.

Now tonight for tea I had fresh slices of bread with the crisp crusty outside and the soft white inside, slathered with butter, then dipped into lovely hot creamy pumpkin soup. Heaven!

I think this will become a ritual at least once a week.