Sunday Treats

Kneading doughThe sweet smell of the warm yeast and sugar bubbling up in a well of white flour awakens me to the ritual of a happy Sunday morning. With love and devotion my mum dedicatedly kneads the soft white dough in her worn out brown tureen. Her nimble fingers twisting and turning with the experience of any master chief. Her body swaying in harmony to the clapped out wireless crackling tunes of old in the background. She skilfully captures the air bubbles, gently teasing them into each devoted twirl. With a flowing movement she pummels the white gooey dough leaving her working class imprint on every downward thrust. Masterfully she shapes it into a big soft ball then covers it with a damp tea towel. With her usual efficiency she places it onto the cast iron hob and swings it towards the roaring coal fire where it is left to rise.
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