It's Sunday morning. You've been awake for a time but have yet to really stir. Opening your eyes, you look at the softly lit window and think to yourself that you really ought to get up. You roll over gently, pull yourself to a sitting position and the day dawns.
You're hungry and so it's a good thing you took the five minutes the night before to make a simple dough and leave it somewhere warm. Switching the oven to 230 degrees, you watch as your cast iron pot changes from volcanic orange to red hot.
Sprinkling a large handful of flour onto a clean surface, you plunge your hands into the sticky dough, wondering sleepily if it will ever come together. Although tacky, it surprisingly lifts clean of the bowl and, flopping it onto the surface, you shape it roughly into a ball before placing it in the smoking heat of the pot, placing the lid firmly on top and putting it in the centre of the oven for half an hour.
Making a pot of coffee, you wrap your hands around the mug and gaze out of the window as your stir your small spoonful sugar into the dark brown liquid.
Before long, the timer beeps and lifting the lid, you see the bread that just needs another 15-minutes uncovered. Is it really that easy?
It is. And, what's more, it's hot and crusty. All you need now is butter and perhaps a poached egg.
How did you ever enjoy Sundays without it?
