I will spare you the details of my overwhelming joy at waking up several times last night to the sound of the dog(s?) vomiting in their crate.
I will also spare you the details of how the clean up of said crate began and ended with me emptying the contents of my own stomach in our yard.
Suffice to say: my husband is my Mr. Clean hero. We are in the market for pillows for our crate. The corner of our living room is Pine-Sol fresh.
Moving on in the day, I’d like to talk about bread.
Not the euphemism for money, I’m talking flour, yeast, ovens… bread.
Every three months or so I decide to go all domestic on my family and bake sourdough bread as a bonding experience. Usually three months is the length of time it takes me to forget the mess involved when preschoolers and flour come into direct contact.
Before we moved, my sourdough french bread recipe was divine. My recipe produced two loaves – and those loaves were typically consumed in less than 24 hours.
Since the move, however, our breaded life has not been so good. Because I’m inherently a loyal person, I keep trying my recipe, hoping for a different result.
Today I set out with high hopes for my french bread recipe and a new sourdough recipe in hand to try. My big girl was on a date with daddy to Radio Shack to get a cable that connects one thingymabob to another doohicky to do something or another, and I had the wiggle worm extraordinaire, Dos, and the child with hands that multiply like octopus tentacles, Tres.
It was the setting for the Perfect Storm.
Every time I do these bread adventures I wonder why I bother because it’s guaranteed at some point I’m going to lose my temper and end up with flour up my nose.
Then I remind myself I’m a homeschooling mom and we have the kids at home so they can live life holistically with us and everyone should know how to make bread so they have food to eat.
Just before I’ve really convinced myself baking together is a great family bonding experience I tend to find the little one licking the dough and the biggers doing things like stick dough in their eyelids or fall off the counter top.
Great family bonding.
The sad news is that today I don’t even have yummy bread to show for it. The house smells delicious, but the bread itself has crust the thickness of permafrost on the Arctic tundra! I don’t know what happened but unless I’m willing to pull the breaded guts out we’ll be risking a dental visit to eat the stuff.
I don’t like the dentist that much.
Of course, I can’t just accept my breaded defeat gracefully. I had to call my mom and complain to her. She, of course, had an answer for what to do with the six loaves of hostile bread on my counter.
Make croutons to bring over for dinner tomorrow night. (Because tomorrow Tres turns two and we’re celebrating together with salad, sandwiches, and a cupcake cake that does not include any animated characters. Hurray!)
I’ve spent my evening making croutons.
I will never. Ever. Not even once. Do this again.
I cut one loaf into cubes. I buttered them. I herbed them. I am baking them. And baking them. And baking them. And baking them….
… oh! Sorry! I lost track of the 15-minute intervals I’ve been waiting for the croutons to turn “crisp and golden.”
Good grief. The timer just went off again. Here’s to hoping the last three hours of my life will amount to something and crisp and golden are in my future.
If you’ve never made croutons, here’s a word to the wise: leave the breaded yummies to Mrs, Cubbison or Pepperidge Farms. Those companies have a niche and they need to fill it.