I have started baking bread again. I once did this before, before children, book-writing and job juggling. " I don't have the time now", I would say to my myself, baking bread takes time. Then, sometime in December, I baked a fruit loaf for one daughter, an enriched dough, studded with tiny black raisins, a melt in your mouth bread to be served with English tea in a cup and saucer, with a drop of milk. After the fruit loaf came some white bread, then, a brown loaf and then, another. "We are a family of boulangeres", my eldest daughter said. I giggled and stuck my hands back into the bowl of flour. For now, I am letting yeast bubble in a bowl of warm water, sprinkled with a taste of sugar. Having created a well in my mountain of flour, I mix until the sticky mess becomes a smooth warm ball, comfortable as a freshly laid egg. I knead, fold and work with my dough, muscles tighten and relax, I can feel it with my toes. I am dampening tea towels, letting things rise and then kneading a second time. I bake, turn the loaf, tap to hear a hollow echo. Baking bread. I found some time.