It is now official. I am way over winter. Way over snow boots. Way over shoveling FEET of snow. I generally protest violence against animals, but if anyone in the Northeast wants to clock Phil the groundhog upside the head, I'm right there with you.
Now that my whining is out of the way, I must comment on the truisms of life that snowstorms, in fact all natural and manmade disasters big and small, confirm.
The snowstorms this winter have reiterated to me that God does answer my prayers, although sometimes I really have to look for the answers. I've come to the conclusion He's just not that fond of the lightening bolt thing any more. My husband of all of eight months, Bate, has a heart condition, and my heart stops every time he lifts a snow shovel. And that's been a lot this year! This storm's 18 inches of snow is more than we generally get in a season, and this is the second time it's happened since December. While I was napping after our first foray outside to shovel, my prayer "Please God, keep him safe" was answered in the form of two strapping young neighborhood boys who, trying to earn some spending money, came by and offered their services. It wasn't exactly what I was asking for, which in essence was,"please, don't let me have to call 911." But in truth, that is what I got: I didn't have to call 911 because Bate overdid it, and my driveway is now shoveled. I can get to work on Monday. Yippee! I think.
Snowstorms bring us together, too, even if it is just to whine about how sick we are of snow. My new neighbor, Carolyn, and I got to know each other a little better this past Wednesday while we were shoveling out from the second snowstorm of the week. We've yelled hello across the street or waved as we drove off to work or errands. But we've never really chatted before. I can't help but wonder if winters like this aren't God's way of saying "stop and smell the roses."
And all of the snow this winter has made me realize all over again how beautiful this planet of ours is. Sure, it's a pain in many anatomical locations to be shoveling every weekend, but whenever I took a breather to lean on my shovel, I saw this incredibly beautiful landscape. I pray that we won't destroy it -- and that God is answering that prayer but I just haven't seen it yet.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
2010 HBL update
I may not be ready to open my own bakery, but I can now check off another HBL item -- learn to bake bread. A couple of weekends back, I drew a deep breath and dumped the flour into my trusty stand mixer. And voila, the next day for dinner, Bate and I had homemade bread.
OK... it wasn't quite that simple or smooth. I am baking bread from the book Artisan Bread in 5 Minutes a Day, by Jeff Hertzberg, MD, and Zoe Francois. After mixing the dough and refrigerating it overnight, I faced the first challenge. Was the chunk of bread I was holding in my hands the size of a graperfruit? It was hard to tell since the dough looked more like...well, like paste.
Next up, challenge #2, the step Hertzberg and Francois call gluten cloaking. I reread and reread that passage. It seemed pretty easy and straightforward, until I held that chunk of dough in my hands. Stretch under, quarter turn, repeat, repeat. HUH? Should be done in 30 to 60 seconds? AAGGHH!! I know it took me longer than that. Now I worried my bread would be a bust.
Then came challenge #3. The dough had to sit out for 40 to 90 minutes to rise a little more. That wasn't the hard part. The challenge was keeping Brillo from getting her nose stuck in it and Bailey from knocking it off the counter just for the fun of it.
After 60 minutes, it didn't look like my dough had risen much, if at all. I felt as deflated as that dough look. My little but loudmouthed internal editor started in. "Every other woman in the world can bake bread. What's wrong with you?"
For the first time in my life, I answered back. "It's only January. I have 11 more months to master this!" And I shoved the pasty, flat hunk of dough into the oven.
I was supposed to wait 30 minutes, but patience has never been one of my strong points. At the 15 minute mark, I flicked on the oven light, expecting to see disaster. Instead, I saw a loaf of bread taking shape. When I took the pizza stone out of the oven, nestled in the center was a round, normal looking peasant loaf.
It smelled like bread. It looked like bread. Best of all, it tasted like bread. Like I said, I may not be ready to open a bakery yet, but I am ready to tackle the next recipes in the book. Cinnamon rolls, here I come!
OK... it wasn't quite that simple or smooth. I am baking bread from the book Artisan Bread in 5 Minutes a Day, by Jeff Hertzberg, MD, and Zoe Francois. After mixing the dough and refrigerating it overnight, I faced the first challenge. Was the chunk of bread I was holding in my hands the size of a graperfruit? It was hard to tell since the dough looked more like...well, like paste.
Next up, challenge #2, the step Hertzberg and Francois call gluten cloaking. I reread and reread that passage. It seemed pretty easy and straightforward, until I held that chunk of dough in my hands. Stretch under, quarter turn, repeat, repeat. HUH? Should be done in 30 to 60 seconds? AAGGHH!! I know it took me longer than that. Now I worried my bread would be a bust.
Then came challenge #3. The dough had to sit out for 40 to 90 minutes to rise a little more. That wasn't the hard part. The challenge was keeping Brillo from getting her nose stuck in it and Bailey from knocking it off the counter just for the fun of it.
After 60 minutes, it didn't look like my dough had risen much, if at all. I felt as deflated as that dough look. My little but loudmouthed internal editor started in. "Every other woman in the world can bake bread. What's wrong with you?"
For the first time in my life, I answered back. "It's only January. I have 11 more months to master this!" And I shoved the pasty, flat hunk of dough into the oven.
I was supposed to wait 30 minutes, but patience has never been one of my strong points. At the 15 minute mark, I flicked on the oven light, expecting to see disaster. Instead, I saw a loaf of bread taking shape. When I took the pizza stone out of the oven, nestled in the center was a round, normal looking peasant loaf.
It smelled like bread. It looked like bread. Best of all, it tasted like bread. Like I said, I may not be ready to open a bakery yet, but I am ready to tackle the next recipes in the book. Cinnamon rolls, here I come!
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