Labour of Love

Just after sunrise, my two wonderful children head outside on a frosty morning, buckets in hand, to coax milk from sweet, patient Rose with icy fingers.

Half an hour later I pour the steaming, frothy milk through filters into a new buckets and chill it for a day.

The next morning I ladle the thick yellow layer of cream from the top of the milk into my mixer bowl and churn it until golden globules float in a white buttermilk.

I work the strained butter on a wooden board under running water until the water runs clear and there is a rich creamy mass of butter packed into a dish.

That evening my incredible husband works a bit of that butter with some yeast, milk, sugar and flour and forms it into a soft, wet dough which he rests overnight.

The following day he takes the large block of day old butter, rolls out the dough and works them together for hours... roll, fold and rest...roll, fold and rest... roll, fold and rest... until there are over two hundred layers of butter and sweet dough.

Then he rolls out a beautiful rectangle of dough, cuts it into triangles, which he sprinkles with cinnamon sugar or adorns with a block of chocolate.

My amazing husband then rolls up the triangles and leaves them to rise for a few hours before being popped into a hot oven. The house fills with their sweet aroma.

They emerge perfectly flaky, and a delicious golden brown. We tuck into the warm, sweet pastries for supper. When no one is looking I hide a few uneaten croissants in the freezer.

A week later, my two wonderful children head outside on a frosty morning, milk buckets in hand....

My daughter also pops those four frozen croissants into the oven and switches on the coffee machine. A little while later my kind husband presents me with a mug of frothy cappuccino and some hot cinnamon croissants.

I truly appreciate my decadent breakfast in bed.