We wake up to fresh breadmaker bread every day (thanks to Mr B) and wrapping the remains of the warm loaf in a plastic supermarket bag has been feeling all wrong for ages ( though it is rare for there to be much left after three ravenous children spread slabs of it with my mum's jam and Mo and I dunk it into soup or hummus at lunchtime). I made this little embroidered picture a year ago now, remembering a golden autumn walk home from the shop with a loaf of bread, secretly carrying Mo inside me, watching Myrtle make ladybirds and butterflies into pets all the way. I turned it into a drawstring bag last night, with a little patchwork frame that I agonised over for ages, staring at fabric and playing with different combinations, daring myself to get over my inability to use the really special pieces (which in my case are always the ones that cost the least- tiny 50p 1950's aprons or tablecloths, that feel like treasure washed up in the tide, never to be found again) So now the final crust of todays bread is wrapped in its cloth story bag and the very oldest fabric in my collection is still behind glass and all is well with the world.
