My gran calls it cheating, but it isn’t the lead up work that matters, it’s the final outcome that means the most to me.
I pull out all the ingredients, measuring each one carefully. I don’t just dip a scoop into the flour, I stir it up first so it isn’t packed too tightly. Spooning a little at a time, I level it off with the blunt edge of my knife.
Water goes into the machine first, then sugar and salt, any other liquids, followed by the flour. I wallow out a small indention in the heap of dry ingredients, careful not to dig so deep I hit water. A teaspoon or two of yeast goes into the well.
After locking in the pan, all I have to do is set the bread cycle, and hit start. Two hours later, my dough is ready and the fun begins.
I lay out a fine dusting of flour on the counter, then dump out the moist blob onto the surface, I simply stare at the mass for a moment. It reminds me of his brain, all soft and squishy, no substance.
I start punching the dough down, just kneading motions at first. Then I can’t stop and I’m pounding it, all my pent-up frustrations spent on that poor mound of paste. Once smooth and elastic, I pull out the lump into a long rope, and begin squeezing off handfuls of dough. Wrapping my fingers around the end, twisting until the dough swells, like his eyeballs popping out of his head.
Squeeze, twist and pop. Squeeze, twist, pop! Squeeze, twist, POP! until I fill a baking sheet with small wads of raw dough. My anger abates, and the aroma of freshly baked bread permeates my kitchen.
Too bad I can’t light a fire under his ass, transforming him into something warm and tasty. Even a slathering with soft butter would do nothing to make him more appetizing.