So, Tuesday, mom and I had talked about what to do for Thanksgiving since it’s just the two of us, and I was going to suck it up and clean my house and cook the dinner and have mom over, and then Friday, she tells me we’ve been invited to a friend’s house. . . But, in the meantime, at cardiac rehab on Wednesday, I only did 40 minutes on the treadmill before I caved because I knew I was going to Wal-Mart afterward and would have to hike over to the “non-grocery” side, nearly to the garden dept, for a new shower head (see below) and pick up some teethpaste en route.
Whilst at Wal-mart, I got a frozen turkey breast (frozen so solid you could have shot it out of a cannon!) and had to ask two different stockers where the heck they’d hidden their cranberry sauce (neither of whom knew). (Now that I mention it, I don’t think one of them was real sure which end was up . . .) There are apparently two schools of thought on where to stock cranberry sauce. Some stores stock it with the vegetables (???) and some stock it where it’s supposed to be — with the fruit. (cranBERRY sauce– duh!) After wandering all over half the store, I finally found one little box of cans of Ocean Spray jellied stuck way up on the top shelf above the canned pineapple where you couldn’t have found it with GPS and a homing beacon. (sniffs in annoyance)
Anyway, neatly threaded into Tuesday’s conversation about what we were going to do for Thanksgiving, was one of those oh-and-by-the-way’s — her shower head was not spraying properly, would I come look at it? (We have hard water here in the flatlands, which is not surprising as there is a sizeable chunk of limestone between us and the aquifer.) (The combining form for “water” is “aqua-“, n’est-ce pas? So why does “aquifer” have an “i”?!?) The problem with her shower head was that since it was probably old enough to vote, it had become calcified beyond the power of CLR to revive it. What it put out was more of a half-hearted rivulet than a spray.
So, when I went to cardiac rehab on Friday, I had an adjustable crescent wrench, Teflon tape and a new shower head in the car seat by my purse. (Why, yes, I am a Toolbelt Diva.) I stopped off chez mom on my way home, and it was only a matter of moments before she had a new shower head in her shower. (Don’t I wish a lot more of the world’s problems could be solved with an adjustable crescent wrench and Teflon tape. . .)
I couldn’t stand it. I cast on for an infinity scarf like I was talking about.
Anyway, what with all the treadmill time (40-45 minutes a pop) I’ve put in during cardiac rehab sessions (not to mention 10-15 minute wind sprints on the top and bottom bicycle), and Wednesday’s Wal-Mart Invitational 10K Grocery Shop, when my alarm rousted me out at 9 o’clock this morning, it was plain by the way I felt that I wasn’t done sleeping yet. After a brief breakfast in bed (some of my morning meds must be taken with food), I rolled over and sounded* like a sperm whale going for squid. I surfaced to breathe at about noon, again at about 3 pm, and again at about 6 pm, and when I surfaced at a little after 9 pm, I knew I was done sleeping.
But there was this dream I had just before I woke up. I was in a kind of farmhouse kitchen, at this big beautiful antique farmhouse kitchen table making pastry dough. I was wearing a bib apron made from cotton feed sacking and the long-sleeved t-shirt I had on had the sleeves pushed up past my elbows. I took the dough out of the big crockery bowl and plopped it directly onto the table, with sprinkled flour and everything, and began to work it. I rolled it into a “worm” with my hands and used a roller to roll the “worm” out flat into a rectangle about a foot wide and about 2 feet long. I thoroughly dusted the surface of the dough with a mixture of coarse-ground brown sugar, cinnamon, allspice, finely chopped nuts, and minced raisins. Then I began to roll one of the long edges in toward the center. I went round to the other side of the table and rolled the other long edge in toward the center. I grabbed the ends, lifted the whole shebang off the table and plopped it onto a large greased baking sheet (one of those heavy duty kind about an inch deep with a rolled rim), pinched the ends and guillotined it into two-inch sections with a pastry knife. I covered it with a cotton tea towel and let it rise. Once it had risen, I spooned jam made from pureed cherries down the center trough and put it in a hot oven to cook. I have never seen nor heard of sweet rolls made this way, but they were delicious!
*sound, verb, to dive down suddenly —used of a fish or whale. (This is the 7th of 7 separate dictionary definitions of the word "sound". Any wonder why English is such a booger for a non-native to learn? )
One thought on “Baking in My Dreams”
Yummy! I’m not so energetic as to make your sweet rolls, but I did just pull a homemade peach cobbler out of the oven, and it looks wonderful. It’s the sort of thing I dare not make for myself, since I’d sure enough eat the whole thing, but four of us are getting together this afternoon for what we’re calling “First Thanksgiving.” Rather than one big feast on the day itself, we’re having smaller celebrations through the next couple of weeks. This afternoon, there’s no turkey or dressing, but there will be ribs and sweet chipotle sausage on the grill. Very Texan, really.