Fresh Bread

Beaucoup apologies for my amateur food photography/camera phone skills

I have to preface this post by saying that my husband is SUCH a freaking Ogre. But really. 

He’s made this unbelievable new “rule-ish type thing” where we can’t watch TV or movies during the week. We don’t actually own a TV, but we (and by we I mean me) do our fair share of silver-screening on our computer, and I was right in the middle of the Big Bang Theory! Can you believe it? He’s so unfair. 

Oh yeah, and the reason I called it a “rule-ish type thing” is because he brought it up months ago and I agreed with it wholeheartedly. Because, theoretically, I think it would be really good for our family. But then he actually expected me to go through with it! And he even got mad when I tried to make excuses for why I only agreed theoretically and not practically, and how it’s really his fault in the first place because I was just trying to please him and keep his stress level down by agreeing while he was mid-comps. And how I can’t fold laundry unless I’m watching TV, because otherwise I get too bored. See? He’s a tyrant. A tyrant, I tell you.

I will not be moved by your pathetic whining

Anyway, one of the results of this hideous new development in my life is that I’m actually doing things at night that I would normally put off until *tomorrow* (read: never). One of those things is baking my own bread. I’ve always wanted to be one of those housewives who bakes her own gorgeous loaves of bread, but as my husband forgot to bring my mixer with us to Florida, and as I don’t own a bread machine, I kind of figured that the toll it would take on my arms and temper wouldn’t be worth it.

But last night we were out of bread, as we have been for the past few days, and I’m trying to be a very frugal housewife and only go to the store when it is UTTERLY necessary. And I couldn’t bring myself to waste half a tank of gas to run to the nearest open store a forty-five minute drive away when I possessed all the ingredients needed for bread-making at home. I figured that since spending the evening with Leonard and Sheldon was not in the cards I might as well dust off my biceps and knead some bread.

And knead some bread I did. Forever. And ever. And then for ever. It was like Groundhog Day. And not the fun UD kegger-in-the-woods-with-awesome T-shirts kind of Groundhog Day, either. The Bill Murray kind.

 Does anyone else make bread? Has anyone else figured out that when those stupid online housewives write “knead for 8-10 minutes or until smooth, soft and no longer sticky” what they really mean is “knead for a half-hour until your arms go numb, then cry, wipe the sweat off your face, and keep kneading until your fingers break and you figure that better damn well be good enough”? Because I have.

The bread-making was long, involved, and I didn’t go to bed until nearly midnight after starting the bread at 6:30. Then I had to wake up at 2 to put the fully cooled loaves in plastic bags so the evil little armies of Florida ants wouldn’t make ant-hills inside them. Then I woke up at 7 to make the Ogre breakfast. And then I cried into my coffee.

But it was all worth it when my kids got their first look at those gorgeous tall, fluffy, golden-brown loaves of goodness this morning. I pulled one down to show Liam, who promptly took a giant bite out of the side.

The damage done

Worth it

 There really is something about homemade bread that makes everyone feel so wholesome. Or, well, me at least. Mostly the kids felt hungry. Also, I figure if I make this evil recipe once a week, I’ll be doing my part to combat the lunch-lady-arm-epidemic on behalf of housewives everywhere. Right? Right? 

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