Every bread you bake (pardon the bun)

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The bread of choice was advertised at two for $6.

It hardly seemed like a deal.

I was picking up some whole-wheat flour and yeast to make pizza dough anyway, so I looked at my wife and said, "I really, really need a Harley!"

Yeeee, sorry 'bout that. We, or I, haven't actually had that conversation. Please don't tip/tick her off by letting my Hog out of the bag.

Back to the bread. You're already riveted, aren't you?

In Sobeys' seafood section, I declared I was going to make my own. My wife humoured me and went along with my bread ambition.

I Googled "whole wheat bread recipes" on my phone and threw the ingredients in the shopping cart.

The first batch turned out heavier and denser than I am.

In fact, a couple of masons knocked on the door and asked if I could supply them with bricks for the new hospital in Corner Brook. They offered me a $15 million contract, but I didn't take it because I'd rather write columns for you than be a multi-millionaire.

I let batch No. 2 rise longer.

The slices we sawed off with a Jonsered chainsaw tasted OK, but it was more like a cinder block than a loaf of bread.

So, I doubled the yeast.

The dough rose really well and took my hopes with it. Finally, I thought.

But when it came out of the oven, what was once a round ball of beautiful dough has sunken in the middle.

Grrrrrrr ...

I became obsessed with making bread as good as my mother does. It consumed my free time, and all last week, I plotted my attack.

The yeast was quadrupled. The dough was going to rise for triple the time. And, once it was in the pan, I performed the bird dance, because it's only a few letters and moves away from bread dance.

I left it to rise and took my boy for a little walk with Purple Car.

Walking back in the door, I was met with a horrifying sight - the dough was the size of a bionic beach ball and actually appeared to be breathing.

Uh-oh.

Before our boots were off, the dough popped out of the bowl. It rolled off the table and on to the floor. Then my poor dough ball was flat as a door ... Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr ...

I cursed under my breath and tossed the slab outdoors.

Sadly, it struck a woman walking up the road in the face. She fell to the pavement. I dropped a Homer homonym - "Dough!"

I ran out to help her, and she told me off in technicolour.

First thing Monday morning I got a call from her lawyer. She's suing, and says I'll only have crumbs left when she's finished.

OK, I'll stop. Nothing since the paragraph that began "Walking back in the door ..." actually happened.

Truth be known, my bread turned out much better after I put three buns in each pan.

Apologies for the floury little tale. I was just trying to have a loaf and get a rise out of you.

It was the yeast I could do as a friend in knead.

Steve Bartlett wants your best bread advice. Email him at sbartlett@thetelegram.com. Follow him on Twitter at SteveBartlett_

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  • Judy Snow
    March 27, 2012 - 10:38

    What I've been looking for all my life - another person who likes, uses, and abuses bad puns. Thanks, Steve:)