Yesterday my boy had another one of his allergic reactions—the kind where the white part of his eye turns yellow and mushy and swells up to huge proportions. The episode was fairly mild. I put in a couple eye drops and everything was fine.

This afternoon it happened again. I didn’t rush or anything since we got it under control so fast yesterday. Plus, I wondered if a cold washcloth would do the trick (his eye was improving by the time we got to the ER last year and we had only used a wet hankie).

But the eye kept growing and he kept fussing and begging to go to the ER.

And then I took a good look at him and said, “Oh my!” and sent my older daughter out to go get my husband.

Putting the eye drops in was an ordeal because he refused to cooperate even when we offered an ice cream bribe. And then we got stressed because the eye was swelling and swelling and swelling and we needed to act NOW. So we tried to pin him down. But that failed because 1) the kid can fight like a demon, and 2) neither of us was keen on prying open a squeezed-shut, mushy-gushy eyeball. So we let him up and then, wouldn’t you know, he went and stood in the hallway and tilted his head back and let me put the drops in (the same ones I used yesterday), no problem at all. He even smiled. He begged me to take more pictures.

He ate his ice cream and was happy.

Except his eye kept getting bigger and bigger.

Then we found another eye drop medicine in the medicine cabinet, but I didn’t have directions or details since we had long since thrown the boxes out. So I looked up information online about the eye drops that we had already used, but the only stuff I could find was talking about ears. Which was weird because that wasn’t what we were dealing with. So I called the pharmacist.

Him: Hmm, are the drops up to date?

Me: Yes.

Him: Tell me again the name of the medicine?

Me: It’s called Ciprodex, and the print is so small I can hardly read it, but I think it says it’s a sterile otic suspension—

Him: What’s the middle word?

Me: Otic. O-T-I-C…

Him: THOSE ARE EAR DROPS! YOU DON’T WANT TO PUT THOSE IN HIS EYES!

Oh. So “otic” is not the same thing as “optic.” Interesting.

We did the drops all over again, but this time with eye drops instead of ear drops. And this time the swelling actually started to go down.

Now my boy is curled up beside me on the sofa, staring at his eye with a handheld mirror.

It’s still quite puffy, especially the part underneath the eye (which he likes to poke), but it’s slowly improving.

And yes, I’ll be calling the allergist in the morning.

Sweet dreams, y’all! May your night be free of protruding eyeball nightmares!

This same time, years previous: three stories, oven fries

It’s been a bugger of a week in the kitchen.

Several days ago I sent out (what I thought was) an innocuous-enough tweet/facebook message that read, “What should be my next cooking project? I want something new and exciting and delicious. Suggestions, please.”

My sweet cousin tweeted back, “How about you perfect the art of the English muffin (preferably with some whole grains). Or have you tried that already?”

As of today, I have five failed English muffin recipes under my belt. Also, I no longer think my cousin is very sweet. In fact, I think she might be a little bit evil. She probably thought to herself, “She wants a project? Ha! I’ll give her THE MOTHER OF ALL PROJECTS! Let’s see how she handles this one!” and—ka-BAM!—she tossed me an idea and then sat back to watch the flour fly.

Or maybe that’s just my tired, English muffin-overloaded brain running a-muck. At this point, I really have no idea.

I have one more variation to try later on today and then I’m clean out of ideas. Which slays me. I’ve figured out how to duplicate a number of (what I thought were) unduplicable foods—bagels! baguettes! flour tortillas!—and so I was quite hopeful that I could conquer the English muffin.

Maybe I was too hopeful. (In any case, if you have any English muffin-making advice to bestow upon my drooping head, then please do so, okay?  And yes, I’m begging. Desperate times and all…)

Because all my hard work was getting me nowhere, on Friday I decided to pour my energies into something more straightforward: braided bread. This egg bread is a piece of cake to make, looks fancy, and tastes delicious. Also, it has Easter written all over it.

The recipe first entered our family about 25 years ago. My family had moved to Leadmine, West Virginia when I was ten, and while the culture was shockingly different from our previous life in Lancaster, Pennsylvania (no Mennonites in sight, no running water at the church, bears in the woods, etc), there was one family in particular that went out of their way to make us feel at home. Judy was one of the daughters, grown and with children of her own, and, if I’m remembering correctly, she had us over for dinner one Sunday afternoon and served us this bread.

Judy’s family lived in an underground house. The front part stuck out from the side of the hill, but the back rooms were completely underground—it was strange and fabulous. Every time I went to their house I was reminded of the cow that stuck its foot through the roof of Laura Ingalls’ sod house. I kind of hoped that something similarly exotic would happen at Judy’s house, but it never did.

Unless you count the braided bread. That was exotic and delicious. I thought it the most amazing bread ever and my mother must have, too, because she got the recipe and went on to serve it at a great number of our own company meals.

I didn’t make this bread yesterday with the intention of serving it to company, but then my parents showed up so it was kind of a company meal after all. Except not really, because my parents aren’t real company—you know, the kind that makes you spin into a tizz—and besides, all I served them was a big bowl of salad (store-bought greens with bacon and boiled eggs) and the fresh braided bread and jam. (And the not-good-enough English muffins. But we’re not talking about them any more, now, are we.)

Braided Bread

Because of its fairly high sugar content, this bread gets dark quite quickly. Bake it on your best burn-proof baking sheet and cover it with foil if it gets too dark.

2 tablespoons yeast
½ cup warm water
½ cup sugar
½ cup (1 stick) butter, melted
1 tablespoon salt
1 ½ cups warm milk
3 eggs, beaten
7 cups flour, approximately
1 egg yolk beaten with 1 tablespoon water, for the glaze

Dissolve the yeast in the warm water and set aside.

In a large bowl, mix together the sugar, butter, salt, warm milk, and several cups of the flour. Stir in the dissolved yeast and the eggs. Add the remaining flour, a bit at a time, taking care not to add too much, until the dough is stiff enough to knead but still slightly sticky. Knead for five minutes until smooth. Set the dough in the floured bowl, cover, and let to rise until doubled.

Divide the dough in half and cut each half into three equal parts. Shape each part into a long rope, about 15 inches long, or several inches longer than the baking pan. Lay three ropes side by side and braid them together, pinching the ends together and tucking them under the loaf. Repeat with the other three ropes.

Lay the braids on greased baking sheets (I used two separate sheets but you may be able to fit them on one large one) that have been sprinkled with cornmeal. Cover and let rise for 30-60 minutes until puffy but not quite doubled.

Immediately before baking, brush them with the egg wash (I use a paper napkin to dab on the glaze). Bake at 350 degrees for 25-35 minutes.

This bread is best served warm. Tear off great hunks and slather with butter and jam. Leftovers make good French toast.

This same time, years previous: baby love, grape kuchen, coconut brownies

It was after lunch and I was hustling around cleaning up the various kitchen hot spots—stove, table, counter—while.my son did the dishes. Because my son washes dishes as though he has a hundred hours in each day and not a care in the world (read, slooooowly), I had set the timer for him.

“Get this many dishes done in ten minutes or else you have a window to wash, too,” I threatened.

So he was washing at a steady pace—not super-fast, but not slooooowly either.

However, the other thing he does when he washes dishes is he talks.

Or whistles.

Or sings.

Or makes weird noises.

Or asks questions.

It’s more of an undercurrent of sound, not loud and abrasive, so I wasn’t paying him any mind this afternoon until he said, “Mom?”

“Um, yeah, um…” I said, focused on straightening out the throw rug. And then, suddenly aware of the question dangling in the air, “Oh, sorry. I wasn’t listening. Try again.”

“Nah,” he said cheerfully.

I paused my clean-up to observe him washing. I do this occasionally—turn myself into a hawk, head jutting forward, eyes popping and piercing—because we have trouble with the dishes getting all the way clean. Every business needs quality control management and the home kitchen is no different. There’s no point in washing the dishes if they aren’t going to get clean, I’m forever saying.

“Boy,” I harped, “you didn’t even wash the mouth of that glass! And all I used it for was cutting out the muffins. It’s filthy! Look at what you’re doing!”

Unfazed, my son swiped the rag over the glass’s rim. “I’ve washed more dishes in my life than you have in yours,” he stated calmly.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“As soon as I was born,” he continued, “my mama looked me in the eye and said, GO WASH THE DISHES.”

Which is probably what it feels like. I’ll give him that much.

In other news, another Kitchen Chronicles is out this week. It’s all about eggs.

And Dutch Puff.

This puff gets divided four ways and disappears lickety-split. Soon I’ll have to make two each time. (Actually, my daughter is the Dutch puff maker. All I do is bake it.)

This same time, years previous: cream puffs (another thing to make if you’re swimming in eggs), oatmeal crackers