People can be so nice.

It’s been a week since I gladly took delivery of some home-made potato bread. Nothing was promised in early negotiations, just a kind offer, born out of a “where-are-you-from” conversation.

Irene hails from Belfast and shares my mother’s name, and no one has bad words for Brian’s. She saw and lived in the troubles, I didn’t ask why she ventured south, but she did and brought with her a love for potatoes, amongst other things, I’m sure.

The instructions were clear: partner the bread with the right butter (they included a slab, clearly sceptical of what I had in the fridge). The sausages must be pork—tick. Eggs, of course, and, very important, baked beans.

Saturday morning seemed perfect timing, a howling wind and sideways rain framed the cook-up perfectly. I remember my father liking potato bread, my Irene rationed him to Sunday morning’s—there were never left-overs. The same this Saturday, the bread was perfect, standalone and mopping up. Just perfect.

People can be so nice. I said that at the start. I mean it at the end. I’ll see Irene and Brian later—I have a bottle of red to deliver. A poor exchange for perfect potato bread and a slab of butter. But the best I can do.

Community? Where would we be without it.

Nick

bread on brown wooden chopping board — Photo by Claudia Stucki on Unsplash

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a different sober

Potato bread