I can admit that in those days I was sometimes jealous of the dough my husband put his hands into, worked so tenderly and tirelessly with, up to the elbows. I can admit now that his bread really was the best. There was such beauty in breaking it open hot from the oven and the steam pouring out, in feeling your appetite worrying at you and knowing it would soon be sated, the astonishing fact that, living as we did in this new time of peace and plenty, we might never have to feel truly hungry again.
