Saturday, February 2, 2013

The Yeastmaster

My husband brews beer, good beer.  He understands yeast, how to feed it, how to rinse it, how to re-use it.  He has flasks of starters hanging out in the refrigerator, spinning on stir plates in the laundry room...

He also makes pretzels.  And pizza.  And pitas.  Yeast and he are friends.  Yeast cooperates with him.  He feeds it and it does its "thing."

Ya, well.  Yeast and I, well, we don't get along.  That's okay most of the time.  You know, as a woman, I'm happy to say... well, I won't say it but other women know what I'm thinking.  I breastfed two kids for 40 months with no thrush.  I had IV antibiotics for weeks this summer without issue.  Yeast and I don't co-exist.  Cool.  Kind of.

But I have tried.  And tried again.  To.bake.bread.  We don't eat a lot of bread but when we do, we like really GOOD bread.  And sometimes we buy a nice (pricey) loaf and half of it gets thrown to the bears.  Or made into bread crumbs.  And I think, "If I could just BAKE some damn bread...."  And I try again.  And it looks beautiful.  But could be used as a lethal weapon.  Or to build a bomb shelter.  Or, it doesn't even look good... 

So, I said to Husband, "How about you try to bake a loaf of bread?"

Ya, well, fu-- him.    His first try.

I mean, that's just wrong.  It's not supposed to be that easy, is it????

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