Now you’re probably not going to believe me, Pranksters, when I tell you that I occasionally bake. You’ve seen what happens when I try to cook (see also here and here) and we all know that while I’d like to PRETEND that what happened in those blog posts were just for show, they weren’t. Sadly.
But once or twice a year, I forget that I can ruin Jello and decide to bake something. This year, it was my mom’s famous Christmas bread.
Round about September, I got all, “IMMA MAKE HOMEMADE BREAD, BITCHES.”
Stop laughing.
I mean it.
Ass.
I carefully mixed up all of the ingredients. I even followed the recipe rather than throwing a bunch of shit into a pan like they do in those cooking shows.
(I learned the hard way that this is not, in fact, how one cooks)
I threw it into a bowl, after I beat the fuck out of it, and waited. I’d started in the mid-afternoon, my cobwebby-memory banks telling me that it took a couple of hours to actually rise. I waited. And waited. I watched some annoying cat videos. I waited some more. I shook my fist in fury at the three toys that randomly come to life and play music whenever the fuck they want, scaring the bejesus outta me.
Still, I waited.
By 6PM, a full five hours after I’d lovingly placed the dough in the bowl? Fuck nothing. It hadn’t moved a millimeter.
By 8PM, I got frustrated enough that I slapped it into a pan and was all, IMMA EAT THIS, YOU’RE GONNA EAT THIS, WE’RE ALL GONNA EAT THIS.
By 8:30, I admitted defeat. I pulled the bread from the oven, dumped it onto a baking rack and realized it could easily double as a brick (to throw through a window) or a paperweight (if people actually used such things). I tried to eat the thing, because I’m stubborn, but it was…it was not good.
A few weeks later, determined that it was, in fact, the YEAST that had fucked mah bread up, once again, I gathered up my ingredients, threw them together and practically sat there, trying to watch the bread rise.
It was like one of those optical illusions – if I looked at it with THAT eye, I could ALMOST see that the bread had moved. ALMOST.
After 8 hours (bonus points for being both stupid AND patient), I sadly accepted my fate: I would not be able to make this bread rise. Angrily I dumped the rock-solid hunks of dough, where, adding insult to injury, they succeeded in knocking over the garbage can.
Last week (or was it the week before), I picked up some frozen loaves of bread. I’m not certain if I was thinking, “Oooo! Bread!” or “Ooooo! Frozen weapon!” but I guess it doesn’t much matter. Same thing, if you ask the Atkins movement.
Yesterday, I dumbly was all, “IMMA MAKE SOME BREAD” because I’m still not on solid food. Fucking tooth socket.
So I pulled the frozen hunk of bread from the freezer and debated using it to kill someone. Seemed like a good idea at the time. In the end, tho, I merely threw it into a pan to “let it rise.” Which, after all that time making UN-risen bread, sounded like a conspiracy.
And um.
Woah.
I’m now strutting around, feeling all accomplished, until I remember that I didn’t actually participate in the actual assembly of the bread.
Which, as I’ve learned the hard way, is how it should be.
—————–
So, Pranksters, tell me something. Anything. I’m in the mood for some stories.
Aunt Becky: “Oooooh, I should make KEY LIME BARS tonight. It’s only 8:30 and House, MD is delayed and OOOOOO TASTY.”
Aunt Becky (wanders to the pantry): “OH I HAVE RICE TOO.”
Aunt Becky: “Who the fuck eats rice around here?”
Aunt Becky (pours Key Lime crust into pan and throws it into the preheated oven for 8 minutes): “I should take some Vitamin V to properly enjoy The House Experience.”
Aunt Becky: “I’m not sure how I like the new storyline. I think there should be more singing cats.”
Aunt Becky: “OOOO The TWITTER. I SHOULD TWEET SOMETHING PITHY ABOUT CELERY.”
Aunt Becky: “I am the celery pundit!”
Aunt Becky: “That’s PROBABLY the crowning achievement of my life. How pathetic.”
Aunt Becky: “I’m going to doodle ‘Aunt Becky Rules’ on the fridge. Certainly they ALL need a reminder. Perhaps THEN I can get my fake monkey butler Mr. Pinchey!”
Aunt Becky: “Celery is fucking bullshit.”
Aunt Becky (wanders outside to check on roses): “Full moon. Explains a lot. I should give the full moon a FULL MOON.”
(gives full moon a full moon)
Aunt Becky: “I hope my neighbors saw that.”
Aunt Becky (wanders back inside): “Wonder if House, MD is on. We’re not getting back together until he gets a haircut. Prison mullet looks like, well, Prison Mullet. Why can’t he be all Michael Scoffield hot?”
Aunt Becky (spies pan sitting back atop stove, timer blaring): “OOOO. SHIT. DID I ACCIDENTALLY NOT THROW THE PAN IN THE OVEN? I’M SUCH A FUCKING DUMBASS, SWEET BABY JESUS.”
Aunt Becky (reaches to grab pan): “I can totally pretend I MEANT to leave that out….OH BLOODY FUCKING HELL HOT FUCK GODDAMMIT.”
—————
Moral of the story: when in doubt, use a test subject to handle all potentially hot items. Alternately, an oven mitt. But mostly a test subject.
Me: (returning from my 7-11 pilgrimage wherein I purchased a Double Big Gulp of Diet Coke) “This Gigantic Diet Coke shall continue preserving myself from the inside out.
Me: “I like Britney Spears.”
Me: “Oh, I see the garbage has been taken away, I shall bring these recycling bins inside my garage so that I may fill them with more recycling stuffs.”
Me: “I’m Captain Motherfucking Recycling.”
Me: “I can’t carry three bins at once.”
Me: “I like donuts, too.”
Me: “I’m very lazy and do not wish to make a second trip down my twenty-foot driveway to carry in a bin.”
Me: “OOOOH PURPLE CAR.”
Me: “I shall use my foot to move the third recycling bin into the garage where I shall fill it with more stuffs.”
Me: “SHINY THINGS MAKE ME HAPPY.”
Me: “This is a BRILLIANT plan. I shall have to exert no more effort than I have to.”
Me: “HAHAHAHA. CREEPING PHLOX SOUNDS LIKE AN STD.”
Me: “I certainly admire these wooden-soled shoes that I am wearing.”
Me: (kick, kick, kick the recycling bin)
Me: “HAHAHAHA. CREEPING PHLOX.”
Me: (kick, kick, kick, CRACK)
Me: “OUCH MOTHERFUCKING OUCH.”
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