Bread and I have a long love/hate relationship. I love its warm doughy goodness...I hate its everlasting presence on my thighs. But our relationship goes deeper than that.
My grandma was THE best bread baker ever. I know, I know...everyone thinks their grandma is the best but seriously mine was. Being her granddaughter I fancied that some of that talent also flowed in my veins but its not so.
I have tried to bake bread many times over the years and my attempts are legendary. There's The Brick of '92, The Blob of '98, and The Scorcher '02 - just to name a few. Several years ago after a particularly close call with the yeast monster I called it quits. I'm a city girl and all sensible city girls leave bread baking to the experts, right?
I'm not sure what came over me, perhaps it is my new found domestic success but last night I decided to give bread another try. Not serious yeast involved bread but Banana Bread which really is more like cake. I can do cake.
I found a recipe, mixed up all the ingredients and slapped that baby in the oven. An hour later I pulled out a golden brown loaf of tasty goodness. I let it cool and then with the kids standing around, taking in my baking triumph I sliced into the steamy loaf. As the first slice dropped onto the cutting board something happened that I could never have fore casted. It oozed.
Crafty screamed and backed away from the table, Dude gagged as Mischief declared, "Your bread is pooping...or puking!"