Opening post by Ser Roland Crakehall · #1
Right, at Crakehall’s hearth I baked hill-honey bread when the winter wind worried the shutters. The crust split beside the fire, and the smell reached the guards before the loaf cooled.
Look, I would set it out warm with salted butter and a bowl of sharp apples for a stranger. Let them eat before asking which road brought them here; welcome should arrive hot, shouldn’t it?
Right, brush the dough with honey only after it leaves the oven. Put it on too soon and the crust blackens while the middle stays stubborn. You can keep that lesson, reader. The exact measure stays mine, does it not?