Every Sunday, in the early evening, the smell of baking bread breakdances through the house. It slides into rooms and closets, sweeping itself under doors even if they’re shut.

Sour dough bread is not something I grew up with but has become something I’ve grown to love. It’s a real struggle not to cut into one as soon as it’s out of the oven. It needs a little time to rest – to collect itself, to learn more about itself.

For a little while just after it’s out of the oven, the loaves talk to each other in whispered crackles. They reminisce about when they were just dough, and wonder about the people they’ve just been introduced to upon leaving the oven.

Shh…listen to a bit of their chat.

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