I’m sure you have heard the story of the Little Red Hen when you were little, or perhaps you have read it to your kids… you know, where the hen plants the wheat seed in the barnyard, but none of the other animals want to help take care of it. But, when she makes the bread, everyone wants to eat it…
I tell you that story to tell you this one… someone gave me Amish Friendship Bread starter. Or, Oscar, as my mom said it used to be called. (Who is Oscar? Why would they name bread starter after him?) Along with the starter came a little recipe that told me each day what I was supposed to do with this Ziploc baggie of liquid. One day you add milk, but never refrigerate it… kinda creepy. Most days are squishing, mashing, and squeezing. You know, because I have time to do this every single day. Plus, if this was truly “Amish” bread… aren’t the Amish busy doing things? Do they even have time to squeeze the baggie? What about Oscar? Does he have time?
So, for ten days (!) I’ve squeezed and squished this bag to make the Friendship bread batter. Last night was the day I was supposed to bake, you know… after working all day. I had to run to the store to buy the ingredients—and loaf pans. I followed the directions and poured the ingredients in the bowl. At this point, you add more sugar, flour and milk… then divide it into four equal parts. In theory, you are supposed to pass out three of these portions to your friends. I don’t have friends who have time to do this. Hell, most of my friends don’t even live in the same state as me.
Screw it, I’m making ALL the bread.
I bake the bread.
I let it cool.
I turn it out onto the plate.
There are 4 large loaves of cinnamon bread looking back at me.
My kids (and husband) asked for a piece. For a split second, I thought to myself “No way… I did all the work. The daily squishing-squashing-mashing of batter. They didn’t do anything but ask me when it was going to be bread.”
Then, out of the goodness of my heart—and to keep the peace – I cut them all a slice. It was pretty good for having sat out on the counter for ten days.
And, by the way, that is Mrs. Little Red Hen to you.
|The Little Red Hen