The smell of fresh bread

Growing up with all kinds of sensory issues never really bothered me that much I ‘spose, sure, I’d get panicky in supermarkets and throw tantrums if I didn’t like the texture of something I was eating-but I dealt with it.

There was always something that calmed me though, the voice of Belinda Murrell in my favourite book, The Ivory Rose- its many quaint baking arcs within. A spirited scone baking scene with recipes credited to “Mrs Beeton’s book of Household Management” constantly had me rereading it.

Something about the way Jemma, the main character, carefully “using the tips of her fingers” rubbed the butter and flour together, the tentative nature of it made me so happy for a reason I can’t really describe. There was a strong sense of pride and satisfaction too of when she pulled out the scones from the oven and they were “lightly brown and had risen into little fragrant puffs.”

I can’t not mention the addition of the kitchen clean up, no mess left behind as everything was washed, wiped down and packed away- so immaculate down to a freshly starched apron donned by Jemma after her baking was done.

It soothed me, seeing as my home in real life was cluttered and in a constant state of disarray, even just picturing the pristine kitchen made me elated.

Jemma was really in a poor situation though, transported back 110 odd years by a magical necklace to save a dying girl whose fate was a death quite miserable. I can’t imagine how many times I read the book through as a whole, I think I must have been 8-9, because I remember feeling so mature when looking at the reviews on the backside of the cover from 12 year-old Grace and 13 year-old Alice.

The characters in the book were so full of life in a way that was intoxicating, the book to me, was liberating, it was freedom, like Georgiana (The poor heiress who was slowly being poisoned by her vindictive aunt) who was confined to her room, retching bile constantly but given hope in the form of a strange new maidservant who claims to have been sent back in time. When one night Jemma tipped out Georgiana’s “medicine” (Really just poison, courtesy of her aunt) and offered her instead a French omelette, with fresh chives; thyme, leeks and cherry tomatoes from the garden. And they had a party Jemma’s fellow maidservant Connie and the stableboy- Ned (an Irishman).

We tried to have a garden, it lasted a few months I suppose, never yielding any crop as like everything else in my family’s lives, it was left to be a victim of passing time. My mother was so ambitious in these fleeting spouts, I remember getting whiplash sometimes, from the good to the nothing. One weekend went out to go out to a farm that did berry picking, and she made jam, icecream and we gorged ourselves on strawberries for a bit. But then there would be nothing, the sticky saucepan she made the jam with would be left on the stovetop for weeks.

And I think somewhere deep down in our chest freezer we probably have some of that icecream in a Tupperware container.

But all of these things didn’t matter when my fingers danced the smooth paper, illuminated words with faint lamplight as my nights were spent recovering from the chaos of the day the best way I knew how.

By escaping, I would imagine the “heavenly taste” Jemma talked about after spending the better half of one morning slaving over five batches of bread dough, at long last after they were pulled from the oven, she and Connie both cut themselves a big slice and slathered them in butter.

When I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, I could almost smell the fresh bread. Nothing is more magical than the power of a child with a good imagination.