Okay, as you’re about to see, my day was kind of boring. The kind of day that includes the driving and picking up of children at school, traveling to two grocery stores and still forgetting something important, and making bread. Yes, breadmaking (okay, my facial wasn’t too bad either) was the highlight of my day.
Not the kind of breadmaking that my mother-in-law would be proud of, the woman needs mad props for her homemade cinnamon buns; and if she owned a computer she would be able to read this herself. But the kind of breadmaking that will get me as close to the domesticated Martha Stewart goddess as it gets. You won’t find me kneading or pounding or in an apron, but I would love a bread machine. Yes, my next purchase when my stupid Quicken program stops flashing red signs at me and allows me to make a purchase other than necessities, will be a bread machine.
Alas, what kind of bread machine? Like everything, my research must commence. I am the queen of online research, where to buy, which brand, shipping coupons, warranty, all these things must be taken into consideration. The problem is I have no clue what a bread machine actually does. I am under the impression you throw in some ingredients (all easily found at my local Trader Joe’s), you put them in a machine that has only one button “on” and then you come home to a house filled with a delightful smell and you retrieve your freshly cooked bread and slice it up and your family devours the sandwiches made from this amazing, incredible, delectable food called bread. Could it be this simple?
One minor obstacle is my children don’t eat sandwiches. . . of any kind. No PB&J, grilled cheese, turkey, no meat/bread combo. But that could possibly be because they have yet to try bread made fresh by me.
A few weeks ago, I bought these adorable little frozen rolls of Bavarian bread. I read the instructions, thawed, painted brushed on some butter, let it rise in the sun for 4 hours, and then I squealed with delight and Aaron came running. I was so excited that I just had to poke at the freshly risen ball of dough. Then I learned as my husband yelled to stop, well. . . the dough shouldn’t be touched once it’s risen. Mind you, no where on the instructions did it state this. The gorgeous Bavarian fluffy bread turned into a deflated shaped balloon. I hate to admit, but I was in tears. So tonight was my redemption. I took on the Bavarian dough once more, and prevailed.
The best part was Aaron said it actually tasted good.