Best. Bread. Book. Ever.

Many, many years ago, before the age of bread machines and tangerine kitchen aids, my mom gave me this awesome little cookbook.

Sometime, somehow, it disappeared. I’m not sure how or when, but I can guarantee you Dean’s heart was not broken by the knowledge that there was one less food-splattered, page-sticking cookbook on the shelf defiling the pristine and glossy pages of his own collection. Until now, that is. Leslie recently discovered this little gem in the collection of cookbooks my dad gave her after my mom died. I’m not sure why Dad didn’t even want to attempt to bake his own bread…..he’s never said…but I suspect there was a flash of lightening one night and he heard, “Jerry, remember the dishwasher episode? Give the cookbooks to somebody who knows what they’re doing….” Anyway, this beauty was already broken in with its own share of stains and margin notes and fit right in with my own collection of dog-eared, and food-splattered cookbooks. (I’m thinking of giving Dean cookbook therapy for Christmas this year). Every recipe I have baked from this cookbook has resulted in sighs of contentment and pleasure when I eat it. Now all I need is to find another copy at a garage sale or thrift store, so when the food stains I add conceal the ingredients and instructions, I will be able to pull out my spare.

Without further ado….one of the many luscious (to quote my mom) bread recipes I have tried.

Cracked Wheat Bread (makes 2 loaves)

4 ¾ to 5 ¾ cups unsifted flour

3 tablespoons sugar

4 teaspoons salt

2 packages Active Dry Yeast

1 ½ cups water

½ cup milk

3 tablespoons margarine

1 cup cracked wheat

If you have, or can find, cracked wheat, the rest is simple. If not the following may apply:

First of all, sigh and look sad when you discover that you don’t have cracked wheat and you really, really want to bake this bread. Now. When your spouse/fiancé/significant other pulls out a container of bulgur wheat and announces that “this is the same thing as cracked wheat!”, point out that the bulgur wheat is not cracked and you don’t feel that the recipe was named “cracked wheat bread” because of the resulting cracked teeth those hard bulgur pellets would produce.

Allow for the extra time it will take for your spouse/fiancé/significant other to drag up the laptop, plug it in, login and then Google to prove to you that the bulgur wheat you have in the cupboard is the same thing as the cracked wheat called for in the recipe.

Give yourself time, lots of time, to gloat when your spouse/fiancé/significant other discovers the bulgur wheat will not crack, grind, or break up whether he tries the little food processor or the caveman tool that’s kept (and you all wish you had--come on admit it) on your kitchen counter.

Save the day by soaking the uncracked bulgur wheat in the milk mixture to soften it. Try not to gloat. Continue on with the recipe.

In a large bowl thoroughly mix 2 cups flour, sugar, salt, and undissolved yeast.

Combine water, milk, and margarine in a saucepan. Heat over low heat until liquids are very warm (120-130 degrees F). Margarine does not need to melt. Gradually add to dry ingredients and beat 2 minutes at medium speed of electric mixer, scraping bowl occasionally. Add cracked (or soaked bulgur) wheat and beat at high speed 2 minutes, scraping bowl occasionally. Stir in enough additional flour to make a soft dough. Turn out onto lightly floured board; knead until smooth and elastic, about 8-10 minutes. Place in a greased bowl, turning to grease top. Cover; let rise in warm place, free from draft, until doubled in bulk, about 1 hour. (This isn’t part of the recipe, but I always use plastic wrap to keep the dough from drying out here in the land of no rain.)

Punch dough down. Turn out onto lightly floured board. Cover; let rest on board 15 minutes. Divide dough in half. Roll each half to a 12 x 8-inch rectangle. Shape into loaves. Place in 2 greased 8 ½ x 4 ½ x 2 ½-inch loaf pans. Cover; let rise in warm place, free from draft, until doubled in bulk, about 1 hour.

Bake at 400 degrees F. about 30 minutes, or until done. Remove from pans and cool on wire racks.

Your bread will look like this.

Hungry?◦

Best. Bread. Book. Ever.

My Mouth On Drugs

Monday I was temporarily crowned. Unfortunately I didn’t get to wear a beautiful gown, or walk regally down an aisle lined with magnificent bouquets of flowers, dragging the train of my velvet and ermine robe behind me. Nobody reverently placed five pounds of gold and jewels on my head. And I didn’t get to walk back down the aisle looking all queenly to the strains of triumphant music and the applause of my eight followers. Instead of a majestic gown and ermine robe, I wore a paper bib. Instead of a golden crown heavy with jewels, I wore scratched plastic glasses that sparkled with water and tooth bits. Instead of the sweet smell of flowers wafting over me, it was the burned smell unique to pulverized tooth enamel. And instead of jubilant music, I heard loud, disturbing grinding.

I don’t have any phobias or incapacitating fears when it comes to going to the dentist, but I’ll be honest—it’s not my favorite thing to do. My dentist is the king of shot-givers but still, there are other things I would choose over being his pincushion. I suppose it could be nerves, but I think whatever is in that shot he so deftly squirts into my gums makes me a bit loopy. My body begins to feel kind of peculiar. My hands sweat and shake a little bit. I feel tingly, and my legs feel like they wouldn’t hold me if I had to jump out of that chair and run home because I just remembered I needed to feed my cat.

After I’ve been given the shot, and my dentist is sure I’m not going to turn purple or start convulsing, he goes off to brighten another patient’s day, leaving the dental hygienist and me to wait for my face to get numb, my tongue to begin protruding, and the first drop of drool to appear. As we wait, another weird thing starts happening. I start babbling.

Dr. Griffith gives really good shots doesn’t he? He’s the best shot-giver ever. I don’t even feel them. Not a bit. My youngest daughter’s living in Ecuador now. She has iguanas in a tree in her yard. And a kitty. Not in her tree. In her house. Well, it could be in the tree, but mostly it’s in the house. I don’t think she wants it to be in the tree. Iguanas, you know. Although she tells me they eat fruit, not kitties. Did I tell you she’s getting married? In Ecuador. Ecuador is far away. Did you ever think you’d have a child living in Ecuador? I never did. But it’s okay. I’m getting used to it. I am going to take her wedding dress to her when it comes in. We ordered it in October. We don’t know the wedding date yet. We all wish she’d pick a date. So anyway, I’m trying to teach myself Spanish. On the computer and from these little podcasts I have on my mp3 player. I got it from my son-in-law. The computer program. Not the podcasts. Not the mp3 player either. I downloaded the podcasts from the internet. The people on the podcasts are Scottish so they speak English with a Scottish accent. Hahahahah. I went to Scotland once. It was beautiful. They’re helpful, though. I mean the podcasts, not the people. Not that the Scottish people weren’t helpful. They were great. It was easy to talk to them because they spoke English. Not Spanish. So I understood them. Pretty much anyway. I want to be able to at least try and talk to Jorge’s family when we’re there. I know they’ll talk really fast but I think they’ll slow down for me if they know I’m trying. Don’t you think they would do that? We’re taking salsa lessons. Dean and I. Dancing salsa.  Not tomato salsa.  So we can dance at the reception and not look like idiots. So Jorge’s relatives won’t scratch their heads and say, “really? is that a dance?” Turns out we stink, though. I love Skype. I Skype with my daughter so it doesn’t seem like she’s so far away. We used to Skype with our other daughter when she was living in Colorado but now she’s here. It’s so nice to have them in town. I took our grandkids to McDonalds and the park not too long ago. On one of those nice days we had. You know how we get those teaser days and then it snows? It was a teaser day. We used to Skype them but now we don’t have to. Skype is awesome. We all have Skype phones now. So we can call Ecuador all we want. Have you ever used Skype? It’s amazing. Did you know it’s free? It’s like we’re just down the street from each other. Actually, my other daughter is almost just down the street. She lives not too far from here. She has the softest cat in the world. He’s great. My cat’s great too but she’s fat. I like fat cats, though, so I don’t care. Is it okay if I listen to my Spanish lessons while you work on my tooth? I wasn’t sure if the earphones would get in your way. Maybe I can get a lesson in while you’re working. And it’ll distract me from what’s going on. Not that I’m worried. Because Dr. Griffith is a great shot-giver. The best. I don’t feel anything. Do you have something I can use to wipe off this drool?

In a month I go back to be permanently crowned......which means I will once again receive the shot......and probably babble.  I wonder if a small gift would be in order.◦

My Mouth On Drugs

The Pied Piper Played and There Was No Cheese

Damn those bloggers! I think they’re causing me to develop an inferiority complex. They keep posting and posting and posting and their posts are not monthly or weekly, but daily. And they’re not just posting ramblings about escaping gases or body probes.They are actually posting about things they have built, or sewed or baked or traveled to see. How the heck do they find the time to do that? Come on …. a hand-pieced quilt in a day? Really? And you still have time to blog about it? You just baked six dozen cookies, five layer cakes and a gingerbread house for your son’s bake sale but you wanted to share your photos with us before you leave to attend your hot-yoga class and you’ll post the recipe for the duck a l’orange you’re preparing for dinner as soon as you’re back? Are you crazy?

Honestly, do these bloggers not work? Or sleep? Or eat? Or go to the bathroom? Who do they think they are -- Jack Bauer? Do they not have a hus I mean children to care for? How do they fit watching Lost into all that creating and blogging?

Oh, and then there are the followers. I follow. I have followers….a few….very few. But what is a follower anyway? Is it like a friend on Facebook?

Ha! I have 46 followers now.

Well I have 99. People like me better. Loser.

Should I feel bad that only eight people are following me …. and almost half of them are my family? Is it possible I need blogger therapy? Therapy to discuss the deeper meaning behind why I am not leading well? Therapy to show me how to grab the baton, step high and lead? Or maybe I just need to be more specific about where I’m going. Maybe followers just don’t like surprises. Today, my followers, I am going to lead you to the land of whine!

Or maybe I’m just not cut out to be a blogger. Maybe those daily bloggers with 175 followers and 92 comments on each of their posts are the same people who were the editor of the school newspaper, class president, head cheerleader and dated the captain of the football team. Or … oh, and I like this one. Maybe they are making up their own followers! Maybe they have created a bunch of new people and then they assume those identities and comment on their own blog! That would mean they need therapy. Hey! You there!  Yes, you.  The obsessive blogger. You are crazy. Really. You need therapy.

Wow. That felt good.  Maybe I just don’t care after all.◦

The Pied Piper Played and There Was No Cheese

Trolls are not nice people

It’s March. It will soon be March Madness and people will be mad for basketball. They’ll go mad for their team and their picks. They'll cheer and shout and love this month.  But March is not a good month for me. I am just mad. I hate the month of March and most of the month of April. I’m cranky and out of sorts and nothing makes me happy. It’s warm(er) outside so that means nordic skiing is pretty much over, but the hiking trails are either still blocked with snow or too muddy to step foot on. The time changes, so instead of getting up and driving to work in daylight, I'll do that in the dark again. What’s the point of a longer day if it’s too wet and muddy outside to do anything?

To make matters worse my job has been so boring lately that staying upright in my chair has been a feat of Herculean effort, made possible only by the few licorice lentils I allow myself when I feel a coma coming on. On top of that, our yearly blood chemistry results came in the mail yesterday and my bad cholesterol is up a little from last year. So now when I eat those lentils, I’m going to do it with even greater guilt, resulting in an even madder me. But I have to eat them, because if I don’t, I might not be able to control the resulting sloom drool and I’m pretty sure there’s an office policy prohibiting drool on keyboards.

For me, cleaning the house and kneading bread are good ways to get rid of a bit of the stay away from me, life stinks feelings I always experience this time of year. Yesterday, to try and make myself feel better (and improve the odds of maintaining my marital status), I did both. I cleaned the house, and I mixed up, kneaded vigorously, and baked sourdough onion bread. After five hours the house was clean, the bread was cooling on the kitchen counter, and I was feeling a whole lot better.  I even felt a smile pushing its way to the surface as I went downstairs to pull freshly washed rugs from the dryer.  I love newly laundered rugs.  Rugs with no grease splatters on them, no animal fur, no food bits.  I love clean rugs almost as much as crawling into clean sheets on Sunday night.  I carried the rugs upstairs feeling better than I had for days. As I started laying them on the kitchen floor, I noticed that where there had been two loaves of bread when I had gone downstairs to get the rugs, now there were only onion bits and one.  Damn that dog!  That pretty much canceled out any improvement I'd managed to make in my mental outlook.

Either she doesn't like onion, or she only had time to grab and run with it before we interrupted her afternoon refreshment because there was only dog drool, no missing chunks.  And Dean wonders why Shadow and I are not friends.....

So, as I said, it’s the month of madness and I've been mad. But there are all kinds of madness. There was a time when one madness led me to another madness which led my whole family to yet another madness.

In 1981, during a previous oil and gas boom, Dean and I were renting a house in Rock Springs owned by an ancient and evil troll who lived two houses away. This evil troll called us over one night, and with soft cheese sticking to his false teeth, he sat with hands on his TV tray and said to us, "the grass in the yard of the house I am allowing you to rent from me is 1/32 of an inch too long.” It so happened that it was my job to mow the lawn due to the fact that I was a stay-at-home-mother of two young daughters with nothing to do, and Dean was required to sit at a computer and lift a heavy mouse all day. “But Mr. Ancient Evil Troll”, I said. “I have two young daughters. One is but but six months old. I must mow while she sleeps and she sleeps so little.” “I care not!”, snarled the troll, as soft chunks of cheese fell out of his mouth and dribbled down his chin.  I got mad.  "I'll show you", I said to myself.  And instead of personally placing the next montly rent check in the evil troll's gnarled hand, I put it in an envelope, stomped down to the post office, and mailed it.  This did not set well with the troll.  “Be gone!” he bellowed as spittle flew out of his mouth.  "Leave this place!"  And we did. 

However, due to the oil and gas boom, there were few places available to rent, and greed was king.  We had no other choice than to explore other options.  On December 1, 1981 we moved here. 

Over 40 miles from the nearest town.

And stayed for nine months.

With no electricity. With no natural gas.  With no running water. With no ability to communicate with the outside world.  But with no evil trolls. 

                                                   Laundry day.

Maybe sometime, if I sense any interest, or I just feel like writing, I will tell you about the time I thought we were going to die, in our truck, stuck between two snowdrifts.   Or about the day I butchered my first (and last) chicken all by myself.  Or the day I almost killed (unintentionally, of course) my youngest child.  Or what I did that time when drifted highways kept Dean in town for two days. And I had run out of firewood. And the wind was howling. And the temperature was below zero. And I was alone. With my children. 40 miles from nowhere. Or maybe I'll tell you what cabin fever REALLY means.  If you're interestered.

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Trolls are not nice people

The things we do for the ones we love

One summer when Dean was in graduate school, we spent close to two weeks tagging along with his thesis advisor and two of his fellow (male) graduate students and drove from Nebraska to Nova Scotia where the other grad. students were going to be doing their fieldwork.  Along the way we stopped and looked at every rock and discussed every geologic formation. Let me clarify that.  Along the way, they looked at every rock and discussed every geologic formation. In order to conserve our very limited resources, Dean and I and the other two grad. students shared a tent or motel room most nights. It was during this trip that I first learned that men will not share a bed with each other. They will sleep snuggled up together in a tent but won’t sleep in the same bed in a hotel room. Even if that bed is so large they would be sleeping in separate zip codes. Even if it means one of them has to sleep on the floor. It seemed a little weird to me then, and all these years later I still don’t see the reasoning behind it. Men will slap each other’s butts without a qualm. A quarterback will lean over and stick his arms very snugly in between the center’s legs. Sweaty, stinky wrestlers will roll around in a circle, wearing barely a loincloth and hug and grab each other in disturbing ways. And yet those same men will not share a bed.

We didn’t eat in restaurants very often because our funds wouldn't allow it. Well....that’s not completely true. It was more a matter of choice. Choice one: buy gas to go see that super cool geology formation/pile of rocks/gravel pit/rock shop/fault which is a bit out of the way or choice two: eat in a restaurant with a real wait staff. My vote never counted. (That's my memory of it anyway).  I happened to be five months pregnant on this trip and when my body said it needed to eat, it needed to eat now. One of those moments occurred while driving along an interstate in the middle of nowhere and the first opportunity to eat happened to be a McDonalds. Dean, ever disdainful of McDonalds restaurants, refused to eat at them.  He would (and will) eat at other fast food joints but not McDonalds.  Go figure.  Fortunately, he realized that telling a starving, pregnant woman to wait for something more suitable would not bode well for him so he pulled in, we entered and I ordered.  I don’t remember what I ate, but I do remember that instead of feeling a pleasurable sated feeling, I felt sick afterwards and consequently I also joined the "no McDonalds for me---ever" ranks. That was the last time I ever darkened the door of the golden arches. Until yesterday.

Yesterday I entered the favorite restaurant of kids the world over with Emerson, Myra and Pierce in tow. We were a procession of clutched hands, just like kindergarteners on a field trip.  We had just spent an hour at the park conquering the rock wall ...

and the scary see-through ladders.  We needed sustenance.   As we drove toward those revered cheeseburgers, chicken nuggets, chocolate milk and Happy Meals, the kids filled me in on the rules. We have to eat our lunch before we can play. Right, Nada? Right. But not ALL of it, Nada. We don’t have to eat ALL of it, just most of it. Right? Right, Nada? We can eat just half the hamburger. Just half of the hamburger is okay, before we go play, because that’s a lot. Half is a lot. Right, Nada? Right. Half is okay. We don’t have to eat all of it. Okay? Okay, Nada? Right.

31 years and eight months after my last McDonalds meal, I ate a burger from McDonalds with no post-consumption regrets (if you don't count my regretted fat intake) and way too many fries.  It’s hard to sit and stare at uneaten french fries nestled next to half-eaten child-size cheeseburgers without nibbling.   I had alot of time to nibble as kids came and went and new friendships were made and ended in the time it took parents to eat their own Big Macs.  Three happy meals (with toys) and 1½ hours later we exited the golden arches and headed home. There were chocolate chip cookies we'd made in the morning waiting for us. 

◦

The things we do for the ones we love

Let 'Er Rip!

Last night I was dreaming in spanish again. I wasn’t singing this time

(Did the music work?  I've been haunted by this stupid player. Some might even say obsessed.   Pleeeez say it worked.)

but somebody was babbling away to me in spanish and I understood every word they said.  I don’t remember every detail of the conversation, but I suspect that it went something like this (in spanish, of course): Wake up! Wake up! Someone is trying to kill you. There are gases pouring into your bedroom. You must open your eyes before the tears pouring out of them blind you and you can’t find your way out of the house. Save yourself, Senora. Quickly! Wake up! I woke up, took a deep breath … gagged. Within seconds I knew that smell. Shadow! Not again. Jeez. Recently she has become a factory of eye-watering, nostril-pinching, gag-reflexing odors. I am married to a man. I have experience with flatulence. But the stench produced when Shadow cuts the cheese is indescribable.

Don't let that innocent look fool you.  Evil gases lurk within.

Once I could breathe again I argued with myself over the next step. Should I make myself crawl out of my warm bed, walk the six feet over to where Shadow is tooting peacefully in her bed, wake her up, explain to her that she is killing me, grab and pull her stinky body out of her bed, place myself in the danger zone and push her out of the bedroom? Or should I stay in bed and hope there would be no more gifts from her for the remainder of night? It was the middle of the night and I am “of an age” which means the window was open so the room was cold. And as it happened, Shadow’s stink bomb occurred at one of the rare moments when I was actually enjoying the feeling of a warm blanket on my body. I stayed in bed.

Shortly after, I regretted that decision. I had barely begun drifting off to the land of Nod when I heard "pppppppfffffffffffftttttttttttttttttt.” At least I had a warning that time. I quickly squeezed my eyes tight, pulled the sheet and blanket over my face and held my breath. I checked the air after about 20 seconds only to discover it was still filled with noxious fumes. I told myself if it happened one more time I was leaving the bedroom and spending the rest of the night on the couch. Sure enough, it wasn’t three minutes later and I once again heard, “ppppppppppppfffffffffffffftttttttttttttttttttt." That dog cut the cheese three times in fewer than five minutes.  The air was hazy with deadly gases.  I looked over at Dean who was completely oblivious to the fact that our bedroom smelled worse than ... I don't know.... I honestly can't think of anything worse.  He was peacefully in dreamland, happily making little puffing noises and totally unaware that one spark from static electricity could cause our room to burst into flames.

I am ashamed to say that I did not crawl out of my nice warm bed and head for the couch. Nor did I grab Shadow’s bed and drag her out of my bedroom.  I was just too lazy to put forth the effort. It’s a sad thing to admit you are a person who would prefer to breathe in toxic fumes rather than get out of bed in the middle of the night and deal with a health risk.  Either I finally just went to sleep and somehow managed to live through the additional gaseous fumes filling up our bedroom or Shadow’s body had reached its maximum production. Either way, we all woke up alive with no apparent side effects.  And one of us didn't even know their lungs were at risk.◦

Let 'Er Rip!