Mrs. BP occasionally makes a foray into the kitchen to bake something. She is pretty damn good at it - a fact to which my rotundity and jolly nature will attest. All kinds of cakes, desserts and other dainty treats have manifested themselves and even I make something now and again. My Normandy fruit tart is the stuff of legend and I am regularly called upon by family members to bake an apple tart as I seem to be the only one who can bake it in the style of Ould Mrs. BP (the Ma).
Some time ago Mrs. BP was presented with a bread making machine by a well-meaning and kindly uncle. The thing has turned out to be quite useless as the results are usually half raw or so solid that they are only fit for braining passing Revenue Inspectors. The hideous monster now resides in the utilty room underneath my larger telescope.
In the meantime she got a couple of books written by a popular TV baker called Paul Hollywood. She has abandoned the infernal machine and has instead taken to baking bread in the oven. It has been done this way in these parts for the past 4,000 years so she sees no reason to offend the sensibilities of our ancestors by utilising outlandish machines. The fact that our oven is somewhat removed from the devices employed by our Neolithic brethern is neither here nor there; the methodology is identical. You puts the bread in and you bakes it. Then you eats it.
Anyway the new and improved method as advised by Mr. Hollywood seems to be working. The bread is delicious and I'm about to enjoy a slice or two slathered with butter and washed down with a nice glass of Australian Merlot. The Aussies may wear silly hats and talk through their noses but by jingo they know a thing or two about a decent drop of wine.
Here, for your edification, is a picture of Mrs. BP's cob: