Tuesday, March 1, 2011

When the Amish Tell You To Do Something..You Do It

Hey Readers,

     Eat it? Throw it away? Eat it? Throw it away? I apologize for my indecisiveness, but I'm trying to figure out what to do with the last piece of my latest forage into the culinary arts. Husband and I experienced some..eh em....internal discomfort, the other night. And as we're still not sure of the cause, I'm trying to decide between a butter-covered slab of wonderfulness, or a possible three hour stint on my bathroom floor. Butter or Bathroom imprisonment? (Why do I always get saddled with the hard questions in life?) I wouldn't even have this problem if I'd just followed the stupid directions. Apparently, when you make a loaf of their bread, the Amish aren't joking around....you know, the other thing they're famous for.

    "So what were you even doing in the kitchen Paige?" Blah blah blah. Yes yes, I know. It's a well-established fact that kitchens and I aren't the best of allies. Most days, I just stand on the threshold like Dracula, eagerly waiting to be invited in. But the look on husband's face was so hopeful when he plopped the bag of gooey "starter" mix on the counter, I found myself saying "yes" to the wide world of baked goods, yet again. And "yes" to Amish Friendship Bread.  That was my first mistake.
     But it seemed simple enough. The Xeroxed directions had everything neatly numbered out:
Day 1. Mush the bag.
Day 2. Mush the bag.
Day 3. Mush the bag.

And on and on, until day 10 when your supposed to be triumphantly baking your much-hyped loaf of bread. So I mushed, mushed, mushed until my mushing limit was reached. Day 10 arrived, and it was time to add some other crap, mix it, and throw it in the oven. Simple enough, for anyone with two thumbs and an apron.
     But life's not simple. The kids needed to be fed, dishes washed and hours logged at work. 11pm on day 10 found me rummaging through my cabinets, in search of bread pans I didn't own, and the baking powder I also forgot I didn't own. At this point, husband came in and talked me out of bread-making, for the evening. He made the tempting argument that making the bread, just one little day later, couldn't possibly make any difference. And just like that, we called down the wrath of the Amish.
     Cut straight to husband's groans of agony, waking me rudely from my sleep, somewhere around 3am the next night. Having waited another 24 hours to bake our bread, the network of  black hats and buggy drivers, caught wind of our desecration and sent us, not friendship, but an extra-strength job for Pepto Bismol. To be fair, it could've been the fact that we'd shared an entire loaf, smothered in Country Crock, all to ourselves. But that would make us fat kids, so....
     And now I must decide whether it was faulty baking, Amish anger, or me and my soulmate's inability to just stop eating. I guess it depends if there's any imitation butter left.

Until Next Time Readers!