On Fridays both Mr. and Mrs. Parent and all the boys are gone, leaving me with the run of the house. As such, I’m torn between doing something productive and lying around like a lump all day. Typically lump wins out, but last night in a heroic feat of athleticism I managed to pull something in my back while sleeping, so lying around was painful and I was forced to keep on the move.
I cleaned up my room a little, and after I piled six pairs of leggings on the bread machine box I realized that the bread machine could be used for things other than storage, such as for making bread.
There really is no greater feeling than knowing you don’t have to mix this yourself.
I opted to make some dinner rolls reminiscent of my mother’s, which is typically a Thanksgiving treat. Because Idaho is 2,600 miles away, I went to a friend’s house for Thanksgiving, and they were light on rolls and heavy on cranberries. Unacceptable.
I used the recipe I found here, because it looked good and most importantly I had all the ingredients already. After throwing all the ingredients in haphazardly and only consulting the manual four or five times, I managed to start the machine again. Thirty minute wait for the kneading and first rise.
“Hey,” I thought to myself, “maybe I’ll actually put together a puzzle to justify the fact that I impulse bought it during that Barnes & Noble sale!”
I pulled out my Thomas “Every Christmas Card You’ve Ever Received” Kinkade puzzle to pass the time and decided to pick one at random. This turned out to be a good idea, because there was actually had no choice in the matter.
This certainly is a puzzle. Ha.
I spent the thirty minutes of the cycle sorting edge pieces and center pieces, and there was something quite soothing about it. Puzzles are an excellent way to send your brain into hibernation, and the room was soon permeated by the smell of rising bread. It was charming.
When the cycle was done, the recipe dictated a halving, flattening, and eighthing of the dough. I’m a slave to instructions.
The recipe called for a twelve inch circle of dough. Not even the boots of the gods could have gotten this dough past eleven.
Once it was sliced into eight pieces, I rolled them from the bottom up and tucked the tip under the bottom of the roles.
Hey, these are kind of cute.
It’s not American enough if it’s not slathered in obscene amounts of butter.
While they rose for a second time, I pieced together the outside of the puzzle. This may have been the only time in my life that I’d managed to correctly separate all the edge pieces from the box; there was not a single gap. I’m done with my life now, everything I needed to achieve has been achieved.
For people prone to forgetting they made tea and letting it run cold, might I suggest a covered Death Star mug.
Just a preheated oven and fifteen short minutes later, rolls were produced.
And re-buttered. You can’t have too much butter. AMERICA.
They actually came out well, and I was appropriately shocked. They even tasted adequate. Much like any generic roll you would find at a church gathering or the local buffet. This is all I’ve ever really wanted in life, let me tell you. This and never needing to do laundry again.
I may have neglected a little of the children’s laundry during the baking process.