Toxic Bread

There are people in this world that like to bake bread. They are good and kind people. There are people in the world who get paid to bake bread. They are called bakers. Use these people wisely. I am not a baker. I like to go to a store, and buy my bread already made. They are so nice at the store, they even wrap the bread for me.

It is all Martha Stewart’s fault. I need to blame someone, so I might as well blame Martha. She started this whole movement. It has invaded my house. It has trampled on my domain. It started out with the best of intentions but then it went horribly wrong. Hubby thought he was doing something kind when he got me a bread making machine.

I put the bread maker, still in its’ box, underneath a chair in the kitchen. I dusted the box lovingly every day. A few days later I opened the box and took out the directions. They were written by people who know how to bake. I thought I should take my time and read them over and over again. I was trying to pace myself. I estimated that it would take me at least two weeks to really understand them. It took me three.

I knew the day would come when I would have to use the machine. I would have to make the attempt. There are only so many times a grown woman can dust a box off without feeling really guilty. Well, today the jig was up. Today was my day of reckoning.

I opened the box and removed the machine. Then I dusted off the machine. It was easier than the dusting off the box. I carefully followed the directions for cleaning it before using it. I measured out all of the ingredients and placed them in the machine, in the exact order specified in the recipe. The yeast is not allowed to touch the liquid ingredients or something horrible will happen. I don’t know what the horrible thing is, but I figure that the people that know how to bake know what the horrible thing is, and that is good enough for me.

Then comes the test. You are supposed to close the lid and plug it in. Then press the MENU and punch in all the right numbers telling the machine what size loaf to make, what kind of bread it is, and how long you want to bake it. Then you push start, it goes beep and starts.

My machine did not read the instructions. The second the plug hit the socket it started to beep. The little digital area was flashing. I couldn’t get it to stop. I pressed the stop button. I pushed the MENU button. I pushed every button. It wouldn’t stop beeping. It wouldn’t take my instructions and it was making a noise. It sounded like thumpwak, thumpwak, thumpwak. I don’t know much about mechanical things but I know it’s not supposed to sound like that. This machine has a mind of it’s own. In desperation, I finally grabbed a chair, and a flashlight. I stood over the machine with the mind of it’s own, pressing on the MENU button with the force of a weight lifter. It finally responded with the correct screen. Success at last! I punched in the selected items and the machine with a mind of it’s own started doing something that resembled what the instructions said it would do. I set it for an ultra fast cycle. In 58 minutes I would have fresh baked bread. Maybe I should not be mad at Martha.

About half way through the baking process a smell started wafting through the house. It was not the smell of bread baking. It was the smell of burning rubber. The children kept popping into the house. One whiff of the burning rubber brought “What’s that SMELL?” and grasping their noses as they ran back outside.

The buzzer went off exactly 58 minutes later. I lifted the lid and stared into my bread machine. The pan that holds the freshly baked bread was half empty. It was supposed to hold a pound and a half loaf of freshly baked bread. I lifted it gingerly out of the machine hoping against all odds that the rest of my one and a half pound loaf was hanging out the other end of the pan. It wasn’t. I am the proud baker of a 3 inch cube of bread. The bread is still sitting on the counter. I am not sure what I am supposed to do with a 3 inch cube of bread. I’m afraid to let the children eat it. There is obviously something genetically wrong with my bread cube. This 3 inch cube has enough yeast and ingredients for a pound and a half loaf. It is one large chemical imbalance. I have visions of trying to explain to the doctor in the emergency room why I let my children eat a super concentrated, chemically imbalanced, 3 inch cube of bread, as the child protection people come and haul me away.

The machine with a mind of it’s own is back in it’s box. Out of respect to Martha, I have given the box a new place. It is not under the chair. The box is now covered with cute shelf paper. It is my own personal step stool. This is the true calling of the machine with a mind of it’s own. It looks cute, helps me when I need it and no longer beckons me to bake toxic 3inch cubes of bread. I sent a letter of thanks to my bakery.