By Heather O.
I dropped my son off at preschool, and instead of doing the ME things I normally do, like going to the library, sitting in Starbucks, happily staring at nothing and thinking how much I love preschool, I actually came home and did my domestic duties. I changed over the laundry, folded the clean clothes AND put them away. I put new sheets on the bed. I cleaned up my son’s room as well as my own. I straightened the living room, the kitchen, and the shoes piled up by the door.
If that wasn’t enough, after I picked my son up, we came home and I immediately started on a fresh loaf of bread made from my freshly ground wheat. While the bread was rising, I made homemade chicken noodle soup for dinner for my family on this blustery, rainy day, while also teaching my son about the finer points of yeast and other culinary talking points.
Like I said, I was truly one to be worshipped. I’m surprised I wasn’t translated on the spot.
I felt I deserved a break after all that. I left my husband to clean the kitchen, and after I put my son to bed, I curled up to finish watching my latest incredibly lame obsession, North and South. As mentioned earlier, it’s all about Patrick Swayze, all the time, which is good, because if I was actually watching this show for it’s witty dialogue and incredibly meaningful character developement, wow, would I be disappointed.
I decided to call it a night around 11:30, and puttered downstairs to put the dog out, when I realized something.
The bread was still rising. I had never actually managed to bake it.
Now, keep in mind, y’all, that I started this domestic bliss fest in the afternoon, and had the bread rising at about 5:30pm. I shuddered to think what my beautiful bread dough would look like after almost 6 HOURS of rising. But I screwed my courage to the sticking place and took a peek.
It barely filled the loaf pan. It lay there, a lump barely bigger than the lump I made 5 hours ago.
Clearly, something had gone wrong.
Clearly, I had no business teaching my child about yeast, as I had just murdered or sabotaged that magic ingredient in this particular yeasty treat.
Clearly, my reign as domestic goddess came to a screeching halt.
So I did what any former domestic goddess does when she is brought to her knees in a full knowledge of her nothingness.
I tossed the offending bread dough in the fridge, thinking I’ll just deal with it tomorrow, and headed to bed (well, via the computer room, of course. But technically, it is on my way to bed, as I have to pass the office to get to my bedroom, so it’s all semantically correct here).
I have no idea what that dough will look like in the morning. And since I’m no longer a domestic diva, I don’t actually really care.
Ah, how the mighty have fallen. But what can I say? Some days I have the magic, and some days I don’t. And sometimes the gap actually occurs on the same day.
Good recipes for miniature bread loaves, any one?
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