Daily bread and regular Scotch

It was a last-minute purchase before we left UK. Bought it from Amazon and never unpacked it till we installed our new kitchen in Caldarola. 

Then there was a certain hesitant nervousness about a new toy: but I'm sure that's not unusual for a self-confessed Oldie. Why have I not used my ice-cream maker? Where are the home movies I intended to make with the camcorder I bought on e-bay? Has my sister ever used the digital camera I gave her when I left UK...? 

We Oldies take slowly to new-fangled gadgets. It seems i-Players, i-Phones and i-Pads need a younger i-Q to grasp simple functions like putting on a long-playing gramophone record, sending a letter, making a trunk call or even reading a book.

So.... without mentioning what I was up to, I tentatively tried my hand as an artisan baker. The result was indifferent. But I got better. Now my bread is to die for though I say it myself. Wholemeal, studded with sunflower seeds, crisp crust, slightly salty, disastrously more-ish... and there's the rub.
It is my weakness. With marmalade, or cheese, or home-made lemon curd. And so the pounds have crept on, slowing me down, straining my well-worn hip joint and delaying the operation which will put the spring back in  my step.
Nothing to do with the whisky. Well...
Are these Indian fakirs (no, not rude) going to be my salvation or my downfall? Will I miss hot, buttered toast, or will they teach me the secrets of chapatis, rotis and pooris?
No such luck, I fear. They are going to try to get me to put my head under the crook of my knee. Or sit cross-legged in reflective meditation.
And then there's the fasting. I do not relish the pain of detoxification - when this means relinquishing the pleasure of such delectable toxins.
Still, it's not started yet and I am making up for it this weekend. The Six Nations Rugby would not be the same without the alcohol. I'll just make the most of my final self-indulgent hours before I arrive at my destination.