Soft White Baps

There's a bacon sandwich waiting at the end of this recipe. That's the whole reason a bap exists. Soft, slightly squashy, dusted with flour that comes off on your fingers, with just enough structure to hold a few rashers and a slick of brown sauce without falling apart in your hand. A crusty roll won't do. A burger bun is too sweet. A bap is its own thing, and once you've made them at home you'll wonder why you ever bought the supermarket sort.

This is weekend baking, but only just. An hour and a half of rising while you read the paper, twenty minutes of actual work, and a quarter of an hour in the oven. The dough is forgiving. The shaping is rough. There's nothing here that asks for skill, only patience and a warm kitchen. Trust your nose. It'll tell you when they're ready before any timer does.

The trick, if there is one, is restraint at the oven door. Baps want to come out pale, the colour of weak tea, with the flour still clinging to the tops. Not golden. Not crisp. Pull them too late and you've made a hard roll, which is fine, but it isn't a bap. I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: pale, soft, Saturday. That's the whole instruction.

Make them once and the routine sets itself. Friday night, mix the dough. Saturday morning, the kitchen smells like bread before anyone else is up, and there are warm baps on the rack by the time the bacon goes in the pan. Right food, right morning.