The smell of baking in my home is one of my earliest memories. My mum standing at the stove, turning to smile as I come in from school. The smell permeates every corner of the house. My joy is my kitchen and baking bread. Today it’s Poppy Seeded Bloomer day.

I am breathless. I feel a small flutter of anticipation at what is before me. I fill the sink with hot water. I speak politely to Alexa, my sole companion for this morning’s task, and request some love songs. She kindly obliges.

I immerse my mother’s large cream mixing bowl in the hot water. I get the scales, strong white flour, salt and the small tin of quick acting yeast from the pantry and place them on the granite baking slab. I dry the now thoroughly warmed bowl and sift 675 grams of flour into it. I am metric since the demise of my Salter scales. After 50 years they met their end when the cat leaped onto the work surface and sent them flying, never to weigh again.

I add two teaspoons of salt, (10 grams but there is only so much metric I do.) to one side of the snowy pyramid in the bowl, and three teaspoons (15 grams if preferred) of quick acting yeast to the other. I recall the days buying fresh yeast from the village shop, pouring hand hot water on it and waiting for it to react. I bless this more reliable and convenient yeast. Bringing the dry ingredients together, I delight in running the tips of my fingers through the mixture

I measure 15 fluid ounces (imperial now) of warm water into a jug, make a well in the flour and pour in the water. Turning the bowl, my fingers encourage the flour into a sticky lump. I resist the urge to add more flour for with some gentle coaxing I can persuade the mixture to integrate and become a pliable dough. In no time I have a shiny ball. Now the real pleasure begins.

I turn the bowl upside down and am rewarded by a satisfying slap as the dough falls onto the granite work surface. At my request, Alexa moves up a rhythm or two and the sound of Motown fills the kitchen. I pull, push and stretch the dough, my body moving as I sway and twist with the music. I am in another place. I am flying, swooping and diving, over mountains, fields and rivers. I sing sweet arias in the Albert Hall and swim the channel in record time. I can do or be anything or anybody and all the time the magic is happening with the dough. I am at one with this moment, my heart rate has slowed and I’m suffused with a warm pleasure.

Finally, I return to my kitchen and allow my abused friend some much deserved rest. I put her in a warm corner. For she is she, fecund with all the beauty of a pregnant woman. I clean and tidy the detritus of my labour and make a coffee, savouring the smell of the yeasty air.

The dough is swollen. Small bubbles appear at the edges of the bowl. I begin my assault again. Turning her from her refuge, she collides with the granite and I knock her back, forming her into a large baton. Putting her on a baking tray I slash her diagonally across her back. Is there no end to her beatings? For my pleasure, she has endured so much already, so I leave her to rest for a while. I baste her with saltwater and scatter her with poppy seeds. They look like a colony of ants, running for cover. I place her into a hot, steamy oven for 40 minutes. The smell in the kitchen is heavenly, I feel the drool collecting in my mouth.

When I lift the bread from the oven and tap her bottom, she rewards me with a drum beat and she is done. She is golden brown, her crust crispy. I break off the nob end, slathering it with butter which drips from my chin as I eat the labours of my morning.

I am at peace with the world. Oh! The joy that is Bread.