The Sweet, Buttery, Taste of Victory

Guess who has officially made SIX loaves of bread???!!!! Delicious bread, if I do say so myself...and I think I will :)

I'm sorry that I checked out on the play-by-play during the day, but we had Ashley over for a birthday dinner last night, so I had few other little things to think about. I did manage to snap pictures so that I could show you now.

Ok, so when I last left you, I was in tears over my exploding yeast and milk fortified potato flakes. However, Mrs. Linda (my MIL and the holder of this recipe) saw the blog and called me with some reassurance. While she was not sure what the milkey potatoes would do to things, she did say that the explosions were, not only normal, but a good sign that my yeast was healthy and active. She also strongly encouraged me to ride it out, bake the loaves, and understand that bread making was an art not a science. I just needed some practice.

I received this little pep talk while I was out running errands (one of which was to buy the proper kind of potato flakes for my next batch of bread), and when I came home, I was greeted by this magnificent site:
Can we talk about how my heart flipped over??!!! It has risen! It has risen indeed!!!!! Y'all this was the first time anything I've ever attempted has actually risen. Let that sink in... Oh my goodness, it felt so good.

I soldiered on to the next step, and once you get going in this particular bread-making process, your kitchen will always have three rising processes going on, like this:
(None of those burners are on, BTW. I think that this is the warmest/least drafty part of my home, and I'm so excited that you're all getting a peak at my messy burners :))

Here's a nice little picture sequence. Plop the risen dough in the pans (no kneading required!):

Let it rise for 6-8 hrs (and throw a party like me every time you peek inside and find that things have actually risen!):

Bake it low and slow for 30 minutes:

Butter the bread tops (are you having to swallow the drool so it won't run down your face :)) and breath a sigh of relief that the milkey potato flakes must not have been that big of a deal:

Scream, "Thank you Jesus, I've made bread...and it's GOOD!!!!"

Guess who's not eating canned biscuits this morning? :)

Mrs. Linda's bread recipe:

Starter: 2 cups warm water, 3/4 cup sugar, large package of yeast (2 1/4 tsp if you buy it in bulk at Sams), 3 Tbl instant potato flakes (I hope we all learned that they are supposed to be plain). Put in mason jar with little holes in the lid and let stand in warm place for 8 hrs.

Dough: 6 cups bread flour, 1 Tbl salt, 1/2 cup sugar, 1/2 cup vegetable oil, 1 1/2 cup warm water, 1 1/2 cup starter. Mix and cover with a towel to rise for 6-8 hrs. (Add to/remake your starter).

Punch bread down (I actually got to do that this time!) and divide into 3 greased bread pans. Let rise 6-8 hours. (Mix second batch of dough)

Bake at 325 for 30 minutes, and then call and tell me about how it's the best bread you've ever put in your mouth :)

Bread Disaster Take 1

I was hoping to have a series of organized posts, mainly pictures--few words, documenting the process of me conquering my fear of bread making...I should have known better. The FIRST (of what I hope to be many) eight hour increments, brought with it disaster ONE.

First thing this morning--Dough. Which was looking/feeling a little sticky (do you say tacky in the bread-making world?) to me, but I shrugged it off. "I have been uber precise," I told myself, "there's no way this is wrong." Jeremiah is having his breakfast/coffee without me, but it's ok, because this morning, I am a bread-making wife. Reach around and pat myself on the back.
Add to starter (Which, BTW, this isn't sourdough bread, as some of you have been hopeful for. Maybe I should have tried that instead :)). Cover it all up, warm and snug, to rise and react for the next 6-8 hours.Let's get a time check for COMPLETION, shall we...

Pat myself on the back again for my dedication to the bread. Put my camera down, and notice a faint hissing and popping noise, new to my kitchen. I turn around to my little safe bread operation and find THIS:

Try to resist the urge to cry. Shoo Jeremiah out the door, hoping that he doesn't notice. Try to figure out WHAT IN THE WORLD I'VE DONE WRONG THIS TIME?! And discover this: Maybe you even noticed it in yesterday's post! These aren't just plain 'ol potato flakes--they already have the mashed potato mixings dried in. Butter and milk! How was I to know? I feel like I've been punished for mashing my own stinkin' potatoes all these years!

So, I set my starter in the sink, to hiss and ooze out of its container at will. And I went to console myself by pouring a cup of coffee, opening my book, and smothering the only type of bread I, apparently, can make, with honey...

...a canned biscuit.

Don't worry. I'm not giving up. I'll be back with some proper potato flakes and the results of mashed potato bread later.

Good Night Starter

Good night wild women...

...whose Daddy dressed you for bed :)

I've Committed

And I'll be back soon with an update :)

What Has She Said to You Lately?

I love to hear the things that children say. If you really listen, it's astounding how simple life becomes--after being filtered through their little minds. These are a handful of the things that have come out of Pace's mouth lately, that made us laugh.I was trying to convince her to take a nap, and resorted to assuring her that, if she would lie quietly for twenty minutes, and still hadn't fallen asleep, I would come rescue her out of her bed.

Pace: Momma, how long is 20 minutes? Is it this many? She asks as she holds up all of her fingers and stretches them as wide as she can--as though that will make them more than 10.

Me: Nope, it's more than that.

Pace: Well then, how many fingers is 20 minutes?

I match my ten fingers to hers and lightly touch our fingertips.

Me: THIS is twenty fingers.

She smiles and, for a minute, I think she's got it.

Pace: Mom, you've got more fingers than me, so I can't go to sleep that long, unless I have you.We had a jar of Pace salsa on the table at dinner, when suddenly our Pace started screaming that her name was written right there on the bottle.

Jeremiah: Well, Pace, that is your name, but this bottle is talking about a different Pace. I bet the family who makes this salsa has the same name as you.

Pace (very matter-of-factly): There are other little girls named Natalie, and other little boys named Noah, but nobody else is named Pace.

Jeremiah (trying not to laugh his head off at our cocky 4 yr old): Well, Pace, there is somewhere.

Pace: Nuh-uh, and there's nobody named Maddox either!

Jeremiah: Actually, there are a lot of people named Maddox and some people named Pace too.

We are both outright laughing at her incredulity now.

Pace: Nuh-uh, y'all are just kiddin' me! I KNOW that isn't true, I'm the only one.

At least she's self-assured :)Jeremiah and I were having a serious discussion about some of the potential homes I'd found for us to rent in Seattle. I was laying out the pros and cons of each one (and trying to hold his attention, I might add) when another distraction entered our conversation.

Me: Jeremiah, there is only one bridge to that part of Seattle, and I'm worried that if there is a wreck on it, you won't be able to drive in to work.

Pace: Mommy and Daddy, if we can't take the bridge, we can just swing across. You know, like the monkey bars. Me and Dapples will just hold on to your backs. :)

Seattle, here we come! A whole family of monkeys.**Addition**

I meant to write one other thing that she said, and I forgot until something jogged my memory the other day. Soooo, I don't know if anybody will actually read this little addition, but I wanted it for our memory's sake.

Sometimes, Pace still makes comments about my Mom (who passed away 2 years ago) that blow me away. She was only two when Mom left us, and it's hard to know how much a 2 year old really remembers and how much is them just repeating things that they hear you say. This was so obviously her own personal remembrance, that it makes me happy:

Mom's favorites chips were Cape Cod, Salt and Vinegar. You know the kind that are "kettle cooked" and extra crunchy. With two little ones being the primary consumers of chips in our house (who in the world am I kidding by that statement?!), I tend more towards cheese flavored items than the bitter tang of salt and vinegar. However, as I passed these at the store this past week, they called my name loudly enough that I went ahead and grabbed a bag. I did smile a little to myself at the thought of these being Mom's particular favorite, but I certainly didn't say anything out loud.

The next day at lunch, Pace was insistent that she wanted to try some of MY chips with her peanut butter and jelly, and, to my great surprise, she loved them. After a few chips she turned to me and said, "Mommy, this is a lunch just like Bebe used to make me!" And she, and that brilliant little sponge-mind of hers, were exactly right. Oh how bad I wish we could still share a PBJ and some kettle-cooked chips.

The Reults Are In :)

Oh. My. Goodness.

Can we talk about the two events, in the last twelve hours, that have made me want to crawl under a chair and hide??? The first event should have been incredible. Jeremiah and Taylor (my sister) have been working on four or five songs that they would perform together at John David's (Taylor's husband) medical school class fundraiser. It was a fun goal to work towards for two really talented musicians--and I'm not biased or anything, they really are incredible.

Things were going along well until sometime Sunday afternoon when I heard John David say that this performance would be A) at Zydeco (a big bar downtown) and B) our two little John Denveresque performers would be playing between two full bands. Some scrounging around happened, and they were able to procure and practice with a bongo player...raising the cool level at least a little...a very little :)

Y'all I wish you could have been with me as I stepped through the double doors into this bar last night. It was a big room, painted solid black, with low ceilings, a large hoard of people banging their heads in front of the stage, and something akin to Marilyn Manson in cowboy boots screeching onstage with his shirt all the way unbuttoned. I looked over at Ashley and Josh (my BIL and SIL who came with me to support their brother) and said (screamed as loud as I could to be heard over the music), "I feel like I've walked into a very bad dream!"

When we found our two performers sitting by the stage, we all just had to laugh until we cried at what they were about to do. It felt like throwing my husband and sister to a pack of wolves as I smiled and held my big-fat-Mom-camera on the front row.

Even with the awkward music shift, I think we would have been ok, because they are that good--with their little harmonies and Taylor's siren voice and Jeremiah's banjo twangin' right stout--but there was no time for a soundcheck and the instruments were turned up WAY louder than their voices (which is probably ok if you're screeching like Van Halen, but not so much if you're trying to actually make beautiful sounds together), there was a massive amount of feedback on the monitors, and and and...the first song was just really, really bad y'all. There's no way around it. The kinks got worked out a lil' bit by the third song, but all in all, it made me mad that nobody could appreciate all their effort and talent because of a stupid sound system/sound mechanic (who Josh, I might add, was going toe-to-toe with in the back of the room and I thought we might have a brawl--sweet brother).

Ok, let's leave that event and head on with me to this morning...and THE spray tan. I have not been to the tanning bed since...college. When you're on a budget like we are, that's one little luxury that I said goodbye to without missing it too bad. However, I keep hearing about the wonders of the spray tan. No skin cancer or leather skin AND you can look tan, sign me up! Right? But, I was leery of the orange factor. Mom and I did a lot of experimenting with the self-tanners when I was inhighschool, and you can believe I had a disaster or two.

So the weddings (the only events in my life that might be worthy of splurging on a spray tan) have come and gone and I've shied away from the spray, scared that I might look like an Oompa-Lumpa in pictures that would be on somebody's wall for a lifetime. But this Saturday night, I have a real-live cocktail party to attend, and guess who's going to try and wear a backless dress? I took one look at my winter-white skin against the purple of the dress and decided it was time to brave the spray tan.

The lady I made my appointment with was super nice (and chatty) and I went ahead and asked her the question that I'd been even more nervous about than the orange-skin possibility..."What am I supposed to wear while you spray me???" Her answer, "Most people just wear panties so they won't have tan lines, but you might want to wear a thong..." "WWWWWHHHHAAAAATTTTTTT?????????!!!!!!!!!!!"

I marched in there this morning, (with Mary Aplin in tow, I might add) and I got down to my lil'est skivvies in a small room with a complete stranger. I was freezing cold, and as I stood with my arms and legs spread, and she spray-painted me, I laughed and laughed and laughed and asked her, "Do you ever wonder at the humiliation people (ME!) are willing to go through just to look a little bit prettier on one night??" She said, "I think about it all the time, now could you please squat a little so that you won't have smiley-faces under your butt cheeks?" AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH! That was the lowest point of all.

After the spraying and drying was done, she asked me to follow her into a stand up tanning bed to help set the color in. I'd never been in a stand-up bed before (I know I'm really dating myself now), and as I stepped inside, still in front of a stranger in my little skivvies, still in the hairnet that she'd put on me, she stuck some stickers over my eyes that I could barely see through and asked me to step into, what looked like, a tall narrow cage and grab the straps above my head. I said, "Is this a torture chamber?" She just smiled and shut the door and I was blasted by blinding lights and 90 mile-per-hour winds blowing from above and below me.

I will say that, at least so far, this tan's lookin' pretty dang good, but is anything worth all that? I'll just be sittin' here in my loose fitting clothes, with spray gunk all over me, unable to bathe for the next 24 hrs. There's no way a tan back was worth that.

*Please read BKaminski's comment (the second comment). Oh, so hilarious!

**For those who feel left hangin' on Dapple's status (Did I actually let my daughter witness my humiliation?!): I asked, when I made my appointment if I could bring my 2yr old. I offered to come at night, baby free, but she said her Dad would be there to keep an eye on her, so bring her on! How accommodating was that? Mary Aplin was watching cartoons and eating a snack just on the other side of the evil door :) Seriously though, if you're in Birmingham and you want to brave the spray, this is a link to where I went and Shelley made it all as un-awkward as possible and did a great job...I think. I still haven't taken a shower to know for sure :)