Posted in Crafty, Food, food baby, iLove, Insane in the Brain, Thanks for the memories

mourning into dough

Plans were drawn up for an extensive SoCal vacation following closely on the heels of a dietary transition which I had heretofore deemed successful.  Since wheat mills and bread makers are not acceptable carry-on luggage, nor are they easily checked as suitcase contents, my heart faltered at the thought of the so-far benefits of my healthy-living campaign being flushed down the toilet with recently regular bowel activity.

3 weeks is the length of time it takes to make and/or break a habit.  I think I heard that somewhere.  I also have a habit of making stuff up and convincing my nutrient-starved gray-matter that I have in fact recalled a previously-acquired piece of information/trivia.  3 weeks is the length of time my wheat mill will be without me, causing me to be a weep mill.  Vacation is not vegan-friendly.  Time off is not, however, time off from our natural bodily processes.

I found a bread maker in my mother-in-law’s cabinet.  I also found a beast of a blender, a food processor, a Trader Joe’s, and a health/whole foods store called Mother’s Market.  Heaven.  Ahem.  Not in Jeannie’s cabinet.  But nearby.

I attempted to mill wheat berries in a coffee grinder.  This proved unsuccessful upon burning out of said appliance.  That’s what I get for purchasing from the bottom of the totem pole, food chain, etc…

Suffice it to say, that 3 hours later, a heartier than usual, and slightly less responsive to leaven, loaf of perseverance, I mean bread, was birthed from the womb of the bread machine.  Creepy.  I know.  I’m trying to convince myself that I don’t want to be pregnant soon.  The repressed thoughts are finding escape by unorthodox phrases and word pictures.

The bread made my intestines, I mean taste buds, sing for sheer pleasure.

It appears my thoughts refuse to be in order tonight.

But I made a loaf of fresh-milled-wheat bread in a land of no wheat mill.   The taste rivals all bread ever created by these desperate hands.  Or by bread makers filled with ingredients by said appendages.

There is pride in my heart.




I rock. I also paper and scissors.

Come on. Let it out. You know you want to.

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