Fourinarow.net

Yesterday, once everyone was mostly awake, Luke asked if we could get some breakfast.  (Actually, I think he said lunch, but he meant breakfast).

These are his actual words:

“Can we go to the kitchen to get lunch?”

“You mean breakfast.  And, yes, we can.” I responded.

“But I want to go to the real kitchen.  Not this pretend one,” Luke said, pointing to the “kitchen” in our room.

I told you it was small.

So, while we’re living with a pretend kitchen, my friend Sarah is talking about entertaining her three children with bread making this weekend while her husband is on a beer-drinking boy party vacation.  I told her I want pictures of the entire process, all the kids, the bread and some including her.

I don’t know why I asked for pictures.  I guess to punish myself.  I know they’ll show Martha Stewart Sarah in her gourmet kitchen making a beautiful bread with three charming, well-behaved, talented little bakers. Everything nice and neat.  The bread, no doubt, will make the house smell wonderful and be tasty to boot.

Can you picture bread making in my house?  If I had a house?  There’d be shit everywhere.  Flour.  And… whatever else goes into bread.  Oh, yeah, yeast, right? Anyway, the ingredients would be all over the place.  My kids would be fighting over who does what or who got more dough to play with.  I start screaming at them and they would then start yelling at each other.  The dog would get covered up in flour as she tried to clean up the floor and then she’d probably end up with diarrhea.

The dough would be decorated with dog hair, specks of dirt and have plenty of germs in it.  It wouldn’t rise.  Not even a little bit.  I’d stick it in the oven anyway (probably burning someone in the process) and then it would come out hard as a rock.  Despite the ensuing frustration, we might find some amusement in it and use our freshly baked bread rock as a frisbee in the backyard (if we had one).  Until, that is, someone got hit with it and ended up crying hysterically.

About that time, I’d send everyone upstairs (if we had any) to watch TV while I drank beer, cleaned the kitchen and pondered my idiocy at the thought of making bread with my children.