Monday, October 12, 2009

Make Love, Not Bread

Isn't Fall such a sexy season? You can find an exact match of the leaves' vibrancy in several shades of OPI nail polish, the crisp air keeps the nips at attention and the cold nights are perfect for sexy snuggles. 
It's a theory. 
Darling Husband has been having an affair with a nasty cold so the nights of late have been filled with minty oils and wet wads of tissues--and not for the reasons one would hope. Last night I was climbing the walls needing some a-ten-schee-on, but the hocking and sneezing was keeping us as close as Jon and Kate. 
The madness drove me to the kitchen where I found an outlet for my ignored passions: bread. Something about this time of year has me nesting in a way. Right now, Baby Boy is napping to a blend of (a new batch of) bread in the bread machine, garlicky pork loin in the slow cooker and apple cake in the oven. 
So last night, at 10pm, I decide I am going to make bread. From scratch. Screw the bread machine! That is for rookies! I am going to make a big, stunning loaf of cinnamon raisin bread. It feels so Little House on the Prairie as I assemble the ingredients, punch the silky dough and cover the bowl with an embroidered cloth. By now it is close to 11 pm and I am way too tired to sit for god know how long as the dough "roughly doubles in size."
There is something else I want to roughly double in size and bread is not it. 
As much as I hate to waste food, I scrape the contents of the bowl into the trash. I grab a mask and hope I can catch him before the Nyquil kicks in. 
(I didn't)
So fast forward to this morning. 6:30 am. Go down to get Baby Boy his bottle and go to throw away a magazine with Megan Fox on the cover that keeps appearing in the bed and....what the fuck is THAT??
A giant gooey monster is crawling from the trash. Its long shiny fingers have pried the lid open and are creeping its way across the floor. I am so horrified I can barely move. What is it? What is....OMG. 
The dough I had carelessly tossed away last night gets the last laugh. It had easily multiplied by 5,400 and swelled to fill a better part of the bin. 
At that moment Darling Husband comes downstairs excited at the prospect of toast but I cut him off at the door and take him upstairs for a check up. 

1 comment:

  1. Hmmm - maybe if you stop calling yourself 'half pint' the Megan Fox covers will stop in the bedroom? :)