Rolling in Dough


When I first started dating My Future Husband, I wasn’t really committed until that fateful Sunday morning when he whipped up a fresh batch of homemade buttermilk biscuits. After that, I was smitten. I wouldn’t have to buy one more bag of Pillsbury frozen biscuits ever again. Such a gift for a lazy Southern woman.

As our relationship progressed, I did enjoy batting my eyes at him and saying, “Honey, can you whip up some of those buttermilk biscuits?” Every woman should flirt with her baker, right?

Then I discovered he had a bread machine and knew how to use it. There aren’t many men you can say that about, know what I mean ladies? The bread machine was fine, but the loaves it made were big squares. The only thing slices were good for was SPAM sandwiches. Then your meat and bread shapes matched.

My Future Husband would whip up white bread, egg bread, whole wheat, and buttermilk. They were wonderful. Not so much for my waistline, though. Life was a breeze as we always had plenty of dough – until that fateful day the breadmaker baked its last loaf and headed for the big bread box in the sky.

MFH was inconsolable. He started making biscuits day and night. Then scones. Then he went to the dark side and made 12 dozen cookies: of four different varieties. I knew something must be done before the entire Hill Country ran out of flour.

Baker to the rescue. I researched bread machines for the truly addicted and found the perfect one that I knew he truly kneaded. I bought it for him, “just because” meaning “just because I want more fresh bread smell in this house!”

Armed with a new machine that makes a perfectly shaped loaf of bread, things have rolled on smoothly until our extended quarantine mixed him into a baking frenzy.

My Future Husband decided to make dinner rolls. Wow. Fancy Schmancy. Simple. Just take the dough out of the perfect bread machine at the sound of the “rise bell” and cut it into beautiful little rolls, watch them rise and cook them to golden perfection. Right? RIGHT. All he produced was some hard rocks that could’ve been used as weapons in a Medieval Times fight with a knight in shining armor. He tried again. More failure. Then came the days of YouTube videos which yielded no more help.

I was worried about him because he had given up on rolls. But then, by magic, one day there was a twinkle in his eyes again. He announced, “I’m going to make Sourdough Bread!” I explained to him that we were about 10 months behind the curve, as most anybody who is anybody started their Quarantine Sourdough Starter last April. But you can’t throw bread flour all over a man’s dreams.

So last week we started Sourdough Starter. Actually, he did. I didn’t help because I’m pretty sure that after menopause, a woman’s yeast goes a little flat. Or at least that’s my excuse.

Unfortunately, Sourdough Starter stinks. And it’s messy. And it needs to be kept warm and all sorts of other crazy things. Worst of all? It takes time. Who knows, if this isn’t successful either, maybe I can convince him to just take his yeast and start making beer.


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