The Character Of A Hot Cross Bun

Easter Story:

By Alma Gross

HOW do you take your Easter Bun?

Hot from the oven, dripping with golden butter, and the devil take the rationing?

Do you dispose of it in several hearty bites, or do you break a small piece and test it for texture; turn at on your tongue ruminating on the yeast which was used, the time it took to rise, and the temperature of the oven that baked it?

That these matters are of great im portance, I learned when I was put ashore on a small island in the British Solomons, 40 miles across open sea from the nearest baker. I was ignorant in the art of bread-making. I thought one’s cookie-boys took care of such details, but when I saw the cook’s finger-nails I was apprehensive. They were long and dirty, “They’ll be clean to-night after they knead the bread,” my husband assured me.

When I tasted my first slice of the grey, sour dough that they called bread, I knew that if this were to be my staff of life, then my days were numbered, and I began hunting through my cookery books for information on bread-making.

In the Beginning was Life—and evi dently yeast, too, for to make a new bottle of yeast one added a small amount from the previous bottle!

I had no “previous bottle.” It evidently was something my ancestors neglected to hand down to me. Then I thought of the yeast the cookie-boy used, and al though I felt I was losing caste, I de cided to start with a small amount from the cook’s “previous bottle.”

That evening, after the boys had gone to their quarters, I sneaked into the kitchen, and by the smoky light of a kerosene lantern, and with several brazen rats sniffing from the rafters, I mixed the portion, corked it, tied the cork, and left it on the shelf to “work.” In the early hours of morning I was awakened by a nerve-shattering bang. I thought a native had run amok with a gun.

“Lie down,” said a sleepy husband. “It’s only your precious yeast blown up the kitchen.”

Next morning, when I investigated, the “boys” had swept up the broken bottle, and were washing the yeast from the kitchen walls.

“Yeast, ’e strong too much, Missus,” advised one with a grin.

From then on the “boys” made the yeast. One cook used hops; another made a yeast from the milk of the coconut.

I did the kneading, and the bread lost its greyish hue. But still it wasn’t as bread should be, and when the fresh Sydney butter, which arrived by six weekly steamer, was exhausted, and we were forced to eat butter a la tin, mat ters again became critical.

Then one stormy evening, when a nor’wester drove down the bay, lashing the bungalow with rain and salt sea spray, out of the squall a schooner fought its way to the shelter of our port. On board was a planter and his wife from a neigh bouring planation. They spent the night with us.

Next morning, knowing the unappe tising qualities of my bread, I suggested eggs and bacon for breakfast. Unfor tunately my guests were on strict diet, and asked for just coffee, toast and but ter. Then came my confession and the tale of my struggles in the bakehouse. But at last practical help was at hand.

My neighbour gave me the benefit of her years of experience in the ancient art of bread-making. My flour-bin and

bread-crock were not right. In the tropics even a wooden lid on the bread-crock will give the bread a musty taste. The warm tropical sea water, which almost lapped the kitchen steps, supplied the liquid in gredient for the dough—the sea was the right temperature, and had the correct amount of salt.

From then on matters improved 100 per cent. I became bold, and tried a variety of white, wholemeal, and currant loaves. The seasons revolved—or rather the calendar months were ticked off.

On that island autumn and daisies did not come with Easter. Both in September and April the yellow alamanda dropped its petals on the lawn; and the jasmine

™elt as sweet In May as It did at Christmas. But it was Easter, and I baked my Hot Cross Buns. They looked good to me on the breakfast table on Good Friday morning. But, still sensi tive about bread and its relations, I hoped my husband would recognise them as Easter fare, and not think them an out size in nali-nuts, or potatoes baked in their jackets.

T, 1 ? 6 crucial moment arrived. The lord of the house took his place at the head of the table. He broke a piece of bun and tasted it for texture. He turned it on his tongue, ruminating on the veast which was used, the time it took to J7 se ; the temperature of the oven that baked it.

“Whacko,” he said. “Hot Cross Buns'”

From the other end of the table ‘i breathed again, and decided that never in the outposts of the British Empire had there been such a moment of relief since the end of the siege of Lucknow

Pim