Nothing Makes Me Feel More Like My Own Grandma
than when one of my kids complains of a stomach ache and I hear myself say, "Maybe you need to use the bathroom." All that's missing is the Russian accent. Also the expression "move your bowels." "You khev to move your bowls?" That would be more like it. And maybe the diagnosis: "Too much stuffed cabbage."
I have columns here and also here.
And I don't think I actually can reprint that NYT bread recipe here, but I swear it's worth the $4.95. I swear it. And you guys? The ones who said that it sounds like too much work? It's not. I actually put up some dough on the weekend, but then around the time I should have been baking it, made a plan with my friend Nicole to take the kids to a concert. So she--she, goddess of breadmaking--said, "Bring it with you. We can bake it at my house later." And so it sat in my car in the arctic morning for 5 hours. And then it sat in her house for another 3. And then, after its allotted rise time, was found mysteriously smashed flat with fingerprints matching those of her rascal two-year-old. And then her oven wouldn't turn on--not even after several whackings with a wrench and/or screwdriver. And then I finally dumped it back in its (dirty) bowl and drove it back home, like a yeasty hostage. And you know what? I baked it and it was fantastic. Don't you love a dough story with a happy ending?