| He was born one icy December morning In the happy chaos of our kitchen. A bubbling, sticky, oozy mess; A promise of future baked riches.Every day I tended to him Fed him Made sure he was just warm enough But not too warm.And Ian delivered: Misshapen loaves with tooth-cracking crusts; Rolls of unexpectedly delicious Sourness; Even a dozen lumpy bagels. But now In other kitchens, I measure out a cup, Tomorrow he will again rise to the occasion. |
| A journalist for 10 years, Fran now works in marketing and PR in the education sector and writes as much as she can. Older writings can be found here: mightier-than-the-sword.blogspot.com |