1. I don’t have anything to say.

2. There. Now that I got that off my chest maybe I’ll come up with something to talk about.

Um…

Um…

3. Oh yes. Let me tell you about Mr. Handsome’s odd behavior. I better start at the beginning.

Mr. Handsome works with a guy named Tim. Tim is young; Tim is bald. Tim likes my cooking; Tim is cool.

Tim’s wife was pregnant with their first baby up until this Monday when her water broke. (Well, she didn’t have her baby right then and there—it wasn’t actually until the next day that the baby got borned, but you know what I mean, right?)

Anyway, Tim and Mr. Handsome were at work when Tim got the call, and Mr. Handsome later reported that Tim, a normally measured, careful worker went all wonky, banging things around, rushing, and jittery as all get out. Mr. Handsome dropped Tim off at the end of the work day and then came home and told me all about it.

And then he told me all about it again a few minutes later.

And then he set about worrying that Tim’s wife would end up with a c-section because she was being induced.

And then he ranted against inducements and medicine in general, and (loudly and angrily) mourned our culture’s dis-empowering view of childbirth. (He didn’t say it like that exactly—he doesn’t use words like “dis-empowering” in his regular, ranty old speech.)

He wouldn’t shut up about the baby. His enthusiasm was sweet and cute.

And really, really odd.

First thing the next morning, he-who-does-not-care-about-email made a beeline for the computer. There was an email. Tim had a baby girl and there had been no c-section. Mr. Handsome relaxed a bit. And smiled.

And then the next evening, over our supper of leftovers, he announced that he had stopped by Tim’s house on the way home from work. He said—and this is my husband we’re talking about, a man who (unsuccessfully) put his foot down after two kids, a man who is not inclined towards lovey-dovey-ness of any sort—this man said,

“That baby was so cute! She had a whole bunch of hair and was so pretty, and she just laid there. It was enough to make me want another baby! What do you say, kids. Should we get another one of those?”

The kids stared.

I stared.

Mr. Handsome continued gushing like a geyser.

“And Tim and Virginia, they were glowing. I mean, when Tim walked across the room”—and Mr. Handsome walked his fingers across the table top to demonstrate—“his feet never touched the ground! And Virginia was sitting on the couch but there was this whole cushion of air under her. It was amazing!”

Never before had I heard Mr. Handsome talk like so. Not about our babies, and certainly not about anyone else’s babies. I still can’t make heads or tails out of it.

And I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I might never be able to do so.

4. And no, that story was not a roundabout way of telling you I’m pregnant.

5. Yesterday I made an apple pie and dumped the flour all over the floor.

6. Today I made apple dumplings and I didn’t dump any flour.

7. But I feel kind of dumpy nonetheless.

8. I’ve been rather uninspired in the kitchen. No obsessions, no fancy/weird/new dishes brewing. I’ve been feeding my family things like Farmer Boy Pancakes, spaghetti and meatballs, roast chicken, sloppy joes, meat and cheese sandwiches, and baked oatmeal. They’re thrilled and I’m bored.

9. Mr. Handsome is figuring out that he’s lactose intolerant. He’s been cutting back on dairy, switching from regular milk to lactose-free milk to soy milk. He feels much better off dairy, but I’m not 100 percent sure it’s really the problem.

See. he has a habit of imagining ailments and illnesses with wild abandon. He says things like, “I didn’t sleep well last night. It must’ve been the popcorn I had before bed.” Or, “I didn’t sleep well last night. It must’ve been the ice cream I had at supper.” Or, “I didn’t sleep well last night. It must’ve been because I was hungry when I went to bed.” So I don’t pay him much mind.

(In fact, when he told me he thought he had cancer ten years ago, I laughed. So he went to a doctor shortly thereafter and then promptly had surgery because he did indeed have cancer. Let me tell you, he’s milked that attachment injury for all that it’s worth—and then some. But still, I don’t listen to him. I’m a cold-hearted woman.)

Regarding the milk problem, I’ve set up an appointment for him with an allergist. I want to know exactly (more or less) what I’m up against before I revolutionize our diet.

To sum everything up, our diet is kind of in limbo and that puts a damper on my kitchen puttsing.

10. And I’m anxious about my new camera. I ordered it last week, but when I placed my order I learned that the company was on holiday because of Sukkot. (Apparently they’re Jewish.) I keep hoping that maybe they’ll just send out the camera anyhow. I mean, my order was pretty straightforward so maybe it will just kind of happen to get mailed…somehow. Every time the UPS or Fed Ex truck go by, my heart starts to race and I suffer shortness of breath. Then when neither truck stops, I get all morose and sit on the couch thinking how much fun it would be if the camera would just materialize on my lap right now.

This same time, years previous: Peposo (beef with black pepper and red wine)

After the flurry of bellies and birthday and some dear out-of-town visitors and a guest post over at Simple Bites (about pizza sauce, three ways—check it out!), things are finally beginning to settle down around here.

My henna tattoo is fading and now I keep my tummy covered most demurely. I’ve ceased wildly waving veils and tick-tocking my way around the house (though once in a while I’ll triple shimmy down the hall, just for anyhow). The birthday flowers are sprinkling their petals, the birthday balloon (that we tied to the door of the refrigerator freezer so that the kids would be less likely to bop it every time they walked past) is starting to droop, the next to last piece of birthday chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting just slipped down my gullet, yum-yum.

And it’s cold outside. Or at least it feels that way after the close-to-100 degree temps we had this past weekend. This morning found Miss Beccaboo dressed in her new winter coat (thanks, Grandma!) furiously peddling her bike all over the yard with a skirt stuck on her head.

Mr. Handsome glanced out the window, saw her, and stated flatly, “There goes the flying nun.”

But really, what I want to talk to you about is bread.

A person might wonder just how many bread recipes are necessary to have up one’s sleeve. Seeing as I have a bunch already listed on this blog as well as another whole blog dedicated to the subject of sourdough, my answer is this: there is no such thing as too much bread. Ever.

I love bread.

In fact, when we were at my aunt’s soiree and went out to dinner that evening, as we waited for our platters of Indian curry and filet mignon to arrive, we went around the table and took turns listing off our favorite food—something that brought us comfort and joy and unending happiness. My answer was sourdough bread, fresh from the oven and thickly spread with butter and grape jelly.

So see, bread is my comfort food, the source of unending toothsome pleasure.

That my belly and bottom are squishy like bread dough is perhaps no coincidence.

Anyway, let’s talk about bread. A new bread. A bread that will cause you, as soon as you’re done reading this post, to stand up and walk out to the kitchen and mix it up. Because, as you will see, this bread is easier than a two-bit floozy and more delicious than mother’s milk.

(Not that most of us remember what our mother’s milk tasted like. But we’ve all seen babies breastfeed. It goes something like this: first they wait watchfully, hands wildly a-waving, as the shirt gets hoisted and the bra unhooked, and while they wait, they pant. Take too long unhooking the bra and you end up with a hyperventilating baby on your lap. It’s one of the risks of breastfeeding. And then when the child latches on, well—hold on to your hats people ‘cause that baby is going to town. There’s gasping and snorting, gulping, the I’m-drowning-but-please-don’t-save-me sounds, lip smacking, heavy breathing, and underneath all the ruckus there’s the steady hum, the sound of a contented baby peacefully purring. Yes, babies purr. Considering that I did this thing called breastfeeding for ten years and spent hours upon hours watching as my babies’ eyes rolled back in their heads in contented blissment, I think I might understand the magnitude of the “more delicious than mother’s milk” statement.)

I got this bread recipe from a friend of mine who borrowed my steam juicer to turn grapes into communion juice. (Loaning it to him made me feel holy, once removed.) In his thank you email he pointed me to a youtube video of a guy making bread. It was the best food video I have ever seen. I showed it to the kids (they were concerned because the dude took the Lord’s name in vain, twice) and then I showed it to Mr. Handsome just because it was so stinkin’ entertaining.

The gist of the recipe is this: mix together flour, salt, yeast, and water. Let it ferment for 18 hours. Shape it and let it sit for another two. Bake. Eat. The end. If you get up right now and make it, you’ll be pulling a loaf of bread out of the oven come suppertime tomorrow night.

Well, what are you waiting for? GET MOVING!

Besides its simplicity and deliciousness, the other cool thing about this bread is its name: ciabatta. I’ve seen the word all over the place, but I’ve never known how to say it. (The curse of the TV-less.) Turns out, it’s a blast to say—cha-BAH-ttah. It means “carpet slipper.” But hey, don’t take my word for it—listen to how the youtube dude describes it. He’s much more entertaining than I am.

I’ve made this bread nearly a half-dozen times so far. I wanted to see how it handled a higher percentage of whole wheat flour (freshly ground Prairie Gold wheat, for those interested in the nitty gritty). It works, I’ve learned, not all that great. Every time I increased the whole wheat, the bread got a little flatter and a little heavier so I’ve decided it’s best to stick with the original proportions (though maybe you’ll learn otherwise).

The only other change I’ve made to the recipe is that I sometimes skip the plastic wrap step and just dump it directly onto the baking sheet. And I upped the salt just a tad ‘cause I’m a salt fiend.

Ciabatta
From the youtube dude, otherwise known as Chef John (I think)

3 ½ cups bread flour
½ cup whole wheat flour
2 teaspoons salt
1/4 teaspoon yeast
2 cups warm water

Combine all ingredients and stir. The dough will be wet and sticky and beautiful. Cover the bowl with plastic or foil, making sure there is plenty of room for the dough to bubble and double. Set it aside at room temperature for 18 hours.

After 18 hours has passed, and 2 hours before baking (or 3 before eating), stir down the dough using a rubber spatula. Grease a baking sheet with olive oil and sprinkle it with cornmeal. Dump the dough on to the pan so that it makes an oblong shape, like a carpet slipper. Flour the dough and cover it with a clean towel. Let it rise for two hours. Bake it for 25-35 minutes at 425 degrees.

Yield: one loaf that is best eaten fresh, though leftovers make excellent toast.

This same time, years previous: Butterscotch Cookies, Birthday Minutia, Ballerina Daredevils

Me dancing. I still can’t quite believe it.

To understand how far out of my comfort zone I was, you have to understand that I have never worn a bikini, avoided all highschool dances like they were the plague, don’t sport a single tattoo or body piercing, and am not an up-front stage-y sort of person. That I painted my belly with henna and then showed it off in front of a crowd of (mostly) complete strangers is slightly surreal.

Some people get culture shock when they move from country to country. I get culture shock just living inside my body.

We did two dances. The first involved only six of us and some gorgeous veils. (For the veils, Rose bought reams of white silk and then she and Terri, another one of the dancers, dyed and edged them. Miss Beccaboo said they smelled like the ocean.)

We swirled and twirled and tried our best not to let them slip through our fingers or get tangled up in our jewelry—no small feat. Factor in the breeze and it became an event of Olympic proportions.

The second dance involved the whole group and much shimmying. I had to shimmy for 16 counts. That’s hard, especially when I still don’t know how to shimmy. But I just smiled and pretended I knew what I was doing.

While I did confuse my left and right arms a couple times and totally lost the beat and stopped early for another part, I mostly kept my act together. I didn’t trip over the sound cables, drop my veil, or stand on the hem of my skirt and cause it to fall down around my ankles. My shirt didn’t come un-pinned and I didn’t smack any of the other dancers upside the head. Considering all that could’ve gone wrong, it was a flaming success.

A bunch of the other women decorated their hands and feet with henna. It turns out that henna shows up much darker on those parts of the body. The henna on my tummy stayed quite pale in comparison. But then again, maybe it’s just me. As Anna Maria so kindly pointed out, “Your skin just doesn’t take well to any sort of color.” And Mr. Handsome suggested that I could’ve just cut a design in a piece of paper, covered my tummy with it, and laid out in the sun for an hour or so—it would’ve provided the same effect, just with a reddish hue.

Here we are pre-dance, sweaty and nervous…

And here we are post-dance, sweaty and elated…

I was exhausted.

Turns out it’s hard work sucking in a belly for hours on end.

The photos are courtesy of my friend Steve, otherwise known as the husband of Anna Maria The Belly Vandalizer, the guy who helped me decide which camera to order (it’s coming in a couple weeks!!!), and an awesome photographer. To see more of his photos, visit him at stevendavidjohnson.com. Thanks, Steve!

This same time, years previous: stream of consciousness, my beginnings