Whether the occasion is a picnic or formal feast, fresh baked bread is never amiss. I take out my big silver bowl and place it on the table beside my bag of flour. NEver one to carefully measure, I pour in water warmed to just the right tempurature, until I judge it to be the right amount. Then the yeast is sprinkled in, its peculiar but pleasant odor scenting the kitchen. I enjoy a cup of steaming tea as I watch the yeast bubble to the surface. I pour in a few cups of whole wheat flour which I ground earlier. It is so much more flavorful than the stuff in the store. Into this bread sponge I add a couple eggs and a healthy glug of molasses. The mixture is a lovely golden brown color and smells sweet and yeasty. I let it sit for a while, allowing the yeast to go to work and make the dough light and tender. I beat the dough thoroughly holding the bowl on my hip and humming random melodies. Little bit at a time, I add white flour until the spoon becomes useless. I dump the mass of dough onto the floured table and begin kneeding. Left, right, thump, turn, thump interspursed with tiny pops of air bubbles. When I am satisfied, I return the dough to its bowl, cover it in a light coating of oil and leave it to rise. A wee time later I return and begin forming loaves. One, two, three, four long loaves take form and are placed on cookie sheets. After another bout of rising, they are placed in the heated oven. It is not long before the tantalizing smell of bread fills the kitchen. When it is done, I wrap it in brown paper and set off for the picnic surrounded by an appetizing aroma.