Every couple of years I have a spell of amnesia and forget that I lack the ability to make homemade bread. I get all excited and spend hours checking out recipes and deciding just which bread I will bake. Glassy eyed with anticipation, I imagine the accolades from family members as they sink their teeth into their first crusty/chewy bite. I purchase yeast with pride, knowing that everyone in line behind me at the grocery store is highly envious of this obviously seasoned baker in front of them.
On the day of the big event, I go to great lengths to ensure success. All ingredients are carefully measured and liquids are heated to the exact temperature. Knead and rise times are followed as instructed. Lovely little loaves go into the oven and I sit back and wait, thoroughly enjoying that smell that only baking yeast bread can emit.
And then it's time to take my precious baked babies out of the oven to cool and admire. I'm giddy as I open the oven door.
Here they are..... shortly before I plopped the little brick bastards into the trash.
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