There is no end to ways I can find to make me feel bad about myself.
This weekend’s bread baking has been an exercise in monstrous futility. The sourdough hijacks the entire weekend. It must be baby-sat like a puppy with feeding and temperature adjustments and taking out at carefully monitored intervals. I thought I did okay this time since I was getting it to rise and it smelled nice and sourdoughy but my final shaped loaves didn’t rise as much as they oozed to the edges of the pan where they were resting.
Still they had a nice shape but they felt a tad sticky and I was out of time dangit—I needed my oven for dinner making purposes. I had a miserable time getting them out of their floured towel and onto the baking stone so they looked like spilled dough blobs and not like pretty loaves. They looked slightly better when baked and browned except I could not get them off the baking stone, even with a chisel and mallet.
At this point, dinner is ready to go in the oven. The bread must come out. The first one I ripped off the stone and the second one I sliced off the stone. Now I have a lava hot baking stone thickly crusted with the bottom half of my stupid bread that I spend all day babysitting and got flour and dough and crumbs all over my kitchen for and didn’t even turn out good and now how do I prevent the crust from igniting while I bake the dinner? Normally the baking stone lives in the oven.
I left the oven door open to get it cool enough so I could pull out the stone and load it onto a cutting board and it sits there still and makes me mad every time I walk in the kitchen. I still have to chip all the burned crust off of it.
The whole thing was a feel-bad experience. I’m going to take a break from baking for awhile.
My dear husband sliced off a thick, half-crusted slice and spread some margarine, Nutella and jam on it and proclaimed it delicious. That’s why I love him.
When I wasn’t making crappy bread I was breaking my vacuum and going to drop it off at Sears in the Mall on a Saturday sounded hideous. There used to be a tiny Sears outlet not far from our house. I called it the most depressing retail site in America because it looked like nothing had been cleaned or updated since 1954 and dusty packages of drill bits dangled from hooks on displays that were one swift breeze from collapsing.
I would go in there and there would be one other person in line and the defeated clerk tapping on the moldy Tandy 2000 and it would still take a half hour. One day I pulled up to grab some vacuum bags and the store was empty and somehow they’d managed to move all the junk inside without disturbing the dust.
Before I broke the vacuum, I cleaned out the fireplace so I could enjoy warming my toes in front of a crackling fire. I failed several attempts at fire making until I finally stuck a giant wad of newspaper in there, doused it with lighter fluid and whoosh! The entire front half of the house warmed up.
Just kidding about the lighter fluid! I don’t want to give my poor dad a heart attack. There’s more headache about the wood I used but I won’t get into it now. We never have the right tools.
There is no computer break this weekend because I’m working on something for my writers group (another unsatisfying creative endeavor) and I need to send it to them tonight. That’s today’s project.
