Monday, whatever day it was before I went to Chautauqua, I baked two loaves of bread. Baking bread is one of the goofy Amish habits I have. I have a number of other Amish habits I do not want to own up to now. (Hint: Roasting my own granola is one.)
Anyway, I baked these two beautiful whole wheat oatmeal loaves. I brushed them with beaten egg so they had this gorgeous dark glaze. And I sprinkled oatmeal flakes over the top of the glaze so they would look like something from Wegmans. So I have these two unbelievable loaves of dark, wonderful, artisan bread.
I brought one loaf as a hostess gift to this friend of Jane's we were staying with in Chautauqua. Jane, who is also in touch with her inner Amish person, brought homemade preserves. She is the canner. I am the baker. I do make a mean orange marmalade but that is too sticky a topic to get into right now. AHAHAHAH!
The other loaf I left on the counter at home after bragging about it to Howard and telling him it was for him.
Two things happen. Number one, hostess in Chautauqua refuses, over the course of the weekend, so much as to sample the bread. Don't say she had a wheat allergy, either. I saw her eating pizza and all kinds of other bread-like stuff.
I even took a slice out of it and left a note: "I tried this. It's good!"
Then I get home to Buffalo and -- hurray, the loaf of bread I left with Howard is gone from the counter. He ate it! I am loved! I am appreciated!
But no! I open the fridge and there it is. Sitting in there. Without so much as a slice out of it. And just this afternoon when I called Howard he was at Wegmans, buying a sub! Can you believe it?
Doesn't he appreciate that he married bread?