All Hail The Breadmaker.

 

It took  a little while for me to start to use it. I thought it would be much more difficult to make bread. I had forgotten that years ago I used to make it and loved the whole process of leaving the ingredients in a warm place and letting the yeast go to work. I never experimented with recipes much back then. 

I have always had a weakness for bread, the scent of it wafting will not fail to entice and enliven the senses. Now, thanks to my dear friend I have inherited the breadmaker so makes it so much easier than before, since I used to do it all by hand way back.

I am finding delight in the ingredients in my store cupboard and have been craving focaccia for the past month or so. Having looked at the wonderful bread recipes in the past week or so that are available I decided to throw things together and see what happened. Since I am dairy free I was concerned that the bread recipes in the manual all contained Milk powder, but I need not worry it still worked.

Tonight I thought I would stick with the machine since I’m not using the oven to cook. My focaccia style loaf contained whole meal and plain flour, rosemary from my garden, some Italian herbs, black olives, extra olive oil and sea salt. I’m sure that if I had used bread flour it would have risen better but this shape means that it will fit nicely into the toaster if there’s any left. 

For my first attempt though from scratch I have to say the end result was delicious and the heavenly smell wafting around the home is just fantastic. Focaccia in the true sense will have to wait just that big longer. 

Having found a few more recipes along the way I will very soon be experimenting with cake. But my next one is likely to be banana bread.


The Daily Post – Scent

George’s Hidden Treasure

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When we came and found it,
We looked here and there.
Picked a spot to sit,
but wasn’t even a chair.
I thought I’d tell what I know about George,
And the friendship that we would forge.
You see, the house it had been stripped,
Of all his worldly goods.
Or so we thought, as we tripped,
Around the sheds and woods.
But as we ventured all around,
The odd treasure still to be found.
An occasional thing had been replaced,
Or scattered about, a little defaced.
In the sheds hung his old tools,
The scavengers, were only fools.
Inside the house there was a table,
But with small minds they weren’t able.
For a moment to stop and think,
As to why it was covered in ink.
I wanted to do a little research,
In the garden, of pine and birch.
There’s bottles and baskets and old clothes,
Digging around an old treasure trove.

Picture a place with a scene of beauty,
Looking around at nature’s bounty.
A place filled with such mystery,
As I began to research his story.
There were pots that had been made by hand,
Strange things I’d found buried on the land.
Antique ladders, a walking stick
To get you about when you’re in the thick.
A painting or two hidden above the stair,
Behind the wall when I stripped it bare.
Writing was not just his legacy,
He was an artist who craved to be free.
Visiting ladies to the hilltop would clamour,
To his studio to sit, with none of the glamour.
He would sit alone and he’d paint
In the house, so cold and very quaint.
Perhaps he had some heating supply,
Upon which he could rely.
There disrobed on a couch she might lay,
Whilst the farmer was off, making hay.

Around these parts it was said, he’s a scribe,
The odd bottle of brandy was known to imbibe.
Walking around, you should take a look
Searched to find copies of his book.
For this is the place he chose to reside,
Next to the house where the horses will ride.
Lived there alone and up there he hunted,
With coldness of winter he was confronted.
Wrote books about writing and he had laid claim,
of stories and cooking which wasn’t so plain.
There was a short doorway, it wasn’t so tall,
But it did for him, he was decidedly small.
Some time ago I read of his travels,
But with time, the story unravels.
But over the years, the things that he crafted
Remain buried here and they’ve lasted.
Things he created, sit out the back,
There in the garden, a wonderful plaque.
His scattered remains of the man he once was,
We leave it right there, just because.
Although the scribe has temporarily vacated,
The delight to share, is unabated.
The place where he once took his pleasure,
He still resides in his time of leisure.
As guardians here now we’ve been sent,
His spirit has shown, for us it was meant.
For right up here might be where it began,
The house that belonged to a little wee man.
He visited once to bid us adieu
Now raising a glass to him, Salut.