Upon the counter, with a perfect golden rise, sat bread, it's aroma a hearth-warmed invitation for all the family.
There is a glowing sense of sunlight with each bite of bread, as if the golden light that bathed the wheat is lighting up my core.
Golden bread appeared to have bloomed right there on the counter, its aroma conjuring the warmest of smiles.
The bread had held onto the heat of its birth and had a springy softness.
Momma's bread warms my eyes with the golden hue of summer wheat.
The bread had a crunch to the crust that brought so many good memories, and the crumb was that wholesome taste of rustic grain. In that moment of flavour I heard my grandmother's voice; I heard how she spoke, as if each word contained a spoon of love and laughter. Perhaps that's why we call such food "hearty," because it is made with such heart.