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Before the day even started, I knew that I was gonna do two things: bake a loaf of bread and kill the damn mouse that'd been sh!tting in my cupboard. While I hadn't figured out the exact order or method for accomplishing either, I knew they both had to get done.
However, as daylight crept into my kitchen, it seemed like the best approach would be to start the bread--which takes about 3 hours in the bread machine--and then drive the 5 miles or so to the Home Depot for the mouse traps.
So I made some final tweaks to the bread recipe--the first loaf I'd made had come out looking like a deflated football--and headed out to the HD.
En route, I made a detour to Marshall's, hoping to find a pair of gloves with cuffs that would fit comfortably inside my jacket sleeves and that wouldn't slip on the steering wheel when I was driving. I'd stopped there the day before, only to find the checkout line stretching across the entrance door. At which point, I'd done a quick 180 out the exit door.
Today, though, the checkout line looked reasonable and I immediately found the gloves I was looking for. They seemed a bit pricey, especially for Marshall's, and they even had one of those anti-theft devices clipped on them--which seemed excessive too, for a pair of dang gloves. But, 'tis the season, I suppose.
Despite these distractions, I went ahead and paid for them. Because that's just what some of us do. And not because of an overabundance of holiday spirit, either. Because, I'm discovering, I have none. Absolutely none. Not even enough, at the negative end of the spectrum, for a decent, "Bah, humbug."
When I got back to the car, I took my lawfully-acquired gloves out of the bag because it was cold and I was gonna wear them into the Home Depot. But when I tried to break the plastic loops that held them to the display tag, and to each other, I almost shredded my fingers. More anti-theft.
"Fuuudge! Only I didn't say fudge. I said the queen-mother of all swearwords." (Quoted from A Christmas Story. Because, you know, 'tis the season, and I'm trying, lol.)
So when I got to the HD, I headed directly to the tool aisle. Because, any number of times recently, I've found myself in need of a decent cutting tool and so decided to get a boot knife because I hate stuff banging around in my pockets. I'd much rather have a large bruise on my lower leg. As I think most people would.
As I turned down the aisle, I noticed a lady stocking screwdrivers near where I thought the knives might be. But after looking for them without success, I reverted back to my search for mouse traps.
Which was probably a good idea, anyway, because Screwdriver Lady had seemed a little nervous about being in such close proximity to my scruffy self. And, in fact, she seemed relieved when I asked about mouse traps, which she happily informed me were WAAAY over in the garden department.
Since that had gone so well, I decided to go ahead and ask if they carried any hunting knives. I didn't want to risk getting thrown out of the store by asking for "tactical knives," so I said "hunting knives," and joked that I needed one in case the mouse I caught was a lot bigger than I'd figured on.
She actually laughed and said that, no, whatever they had would be right where I'd been looking. So off I went to the garden department for the mousetraps.
Which, I remembered, was right adjacent to the electrical department and where, among the Klein tools, I found a really nice electrician's knife with a good lock-back blade and a clip that would fit nicely over the top of my boot.
When I got home, the bread was progressing but enough time remained that I could set up the traps I'd gotten for the rude little mouse. Or the really big mouse--which I was now prepared for--if he turned out to be that.
What I wasn't prepared for was getting my own thumb snapped in one of the GD traps I was setting. (Followed by more Xmas Story language, I regret to add.)
Fortunately, it doesn't look like I'm gonna lose the nail so, in retrospect, I'll attempt a show of Thanksgiving spirit by being thankful that I wasn't setting traps for freakin' beavers or something. Which would've DEFINITELY ruined my day.
Anyway, by the time I'd finished swearing--and sobbing uncontrollably--and got the rest of the traps set, the bread was done. And this time, thankfully, it didn't look like a sodden little lump in the bottom of the pan. (See? More Thanksgiving spirit.)
Well, it didn't look SODDEN anyway. It did appear to have a very nice crust--like everything had mixed well and had actually risen. A little. If you stared at it long enough.
So I went ahead and de-panned it--that's what us bread machine aces call it--and set it on the counter to cool. Then I thought about the dang mouse and set it on the stove. I also thought about spraying the sides of the stove with Pam to, you know, make it harder to climb, but I really need what's left of it to waterproof my boots.
After that, I had to leave for my daughter's because I'd told her I'd go with her and the girls to Maizie's indoor soccer practice. So by the time I got back, the bread was well-cooled and ready to cut.
And, I was actually able to cut it. With an actual bread knife. It WAS a lot more dense than I would've liked, but the crust was decent, the flavor was passable, and it didn't look like one of Tom Brady's "Deflategate" footballs. (I know, appearances aren't EVERYTHING, but they are SOMETHING, at least where home-baked bread and NFL footballs are concerned.)
Bottom line is, I had bread that night for the first time in six or eight weeks. And I felt like it was something I could survive on and even, with a few more tweaks, see myself making again.
However, before I close this entry, I feel compelled to add that no mice were killed--or even mildly frightened, unless they heard my Xmas language--in the unfolding of this episode. And I'll tell you why in the next one. Betcha can't wait...
LPK
Dreamwidth
11.19.2018
However, as daylight crept into my kitchen, it seemed like the best approach would be to start the bread--which takes about 3 hours in the bread machine--and then drive the 5 miles or so to the Home Depot for the mouse traps.
So I made some final tweaks to the bread recipe--the first loaf I'd made had come out looking like a deflated football--and headed out to the HD.
En route, I made a detour to Marshall's, hoping to find a pair of gloves with cuffs that would fit comfortably inside my jacket sleeves and that wouldn't slip on the steering wheel when I was driving. I'd stopped there the day before, only to find the checkout line stretching across the entrance door. At which point, I'd done a quick 180 out the exit door.
Today, though, the checkout line looked reasonable and I immediately found the gloves I was looking for. They seemed a bit pricey, especially for Marshall's, and they even had one of those anti-theft devices clipped on them--which seemed excessive too, for a pair of dang gloves. But, 'tis the season, I suppose.
Despite these distractions, I went ahead and paid for them. Because that's just what some of us do. And not because of an overabundance of holiday spirit, either. Because, I'm discovering, I have none. Absolutely none. Not even enough, at the negative end of the spectrum, for a decent, "Bah, humbug."
When I got back to the car, I took my lawfully-acquired gloves out of the bag because it was cold and I was gonna wear them into the Home Depot. But when I tried to break the plastic loops that held them to the display tag, and to each other, I almost shredded my fingers. More anti-theft.
"Fuuudge! Only I didn't say fudge. I said the queen-mother of all swearwords." (Quoted from A Christmas Story. Because, you know, 'tis the season, and I'm trying, lol.)
So when I got to the HD, I headed directly to the tool aisle. Because, any number of times recently, I've found myself in need of a decent cutting tool and so decided to get a boot knife because I hate stuff banging around in my pockets. I'd much rather have a large bruise on my lower leg. As I think most people would.
As I turned down the aisle, I noticed a lady stocking screwdrivers near where I thought the knives might be. But after looking for them without success, I reverted back to my search for mouse traps.
Which was probably a good idea, anyway, because Screwdriver Lady had seemed a little nervous about being in such close proximity to my scruffy self. And, in fact, she seemed relieved when I asked about mouse traps, which she happily informed me were WAAAY over in the garden department.
Since that had gone so well, I decided to go ahead and ask if they carried any hunting knives. I didn't want to risk getting thrown out of the store by asking for "tactical knives," so I said "hunting knives," and joked that I needed one in case the mouse I caught was a lot bigger than I'd figured on.
She actually laughed and said that, no, whatever they had would be right where I'd been looking. So off I went to the garden department for the mousetraps.
Which, I remembered, was right adjacent to the electrical department and where, among the Klein tools, I found a really nice electrician's knife with a good lock-back blade and a clip that would fit nicely over the top of my boot.
When I got home, the bread was progressing but enough time remained that I could set up the traps I'd gotten for the rude little mouse. Or the really big mouse--which I was now prepared for--if he turned out to be that.
What I wasn't prepared for was getting my own thumb snapped in one of the GD traps I was setting. (Followed by more Xmas Story language, I regret to add.)
Fortunately, it doesn't look like I'm gonna lose the nail so, in retrospect, I'll attempt a show of Thanksgiving spirit by being thankful that I wasn't setting traps for freakin' beavers or something. Which would've DEFINITELY ruined my day.
Anyway, by the time I'd finished swearing--and sobbing uncontrollably--and got the rest of the traps set, the bread was done. And this time, thankfully, it didn't look like a sodden little lump in the bottom of the pan. (See? More Thanksgiving spirit.)
Well, it didn't look SODDEN anyway. It did appear to have a very nice crust--like everything had mixed well and had actually risen. A little. If you stared at it long enough.
So I went ahead and de-panned it--that's what us bread machine aces call it--and set it on the counter to cool. Then I thought about the dang mouse and set it on the stove. I also thought about spraying the sides of the stove with Pam to, you know, make it harder to climb, but I really need what's left of it to waterproof my boots.
After that, I had to leave for my daughter's because I'd told her I'd go with her and the girls to Maizie's indoor soccer practice. So by the time I got back, the bread was well-cooled and ready to cut.
And, I was actually able to cut it. With an actual bread knife. It WAS a lot more dense than I would've liked, but the crust was decent, the flavor was passable, and it didn't look like one of Tom Brady's "Deflategate" footballs. (I know, appearances aren't EVERYTHING, but they are SOMETHING, at least where home-baked bread and NFL footballs are concerned.)
Bottom line is, I had bread that night for the first time in six or eight weeks. And I felt like it was something I could survive on and even, with a few more tweaks, see myself making again.
However, before I close this entry, I feel compelled to add that no mice were killed--or even mildly frightened, unless they heard my Xmas language--in the unfolding of this episode. And I'll tell you why in the next one. Betcha can't wait...
LPK
Dreamwidth
11.19.2018
