Thursday, March 26, 2009
The house is overflowing with fresh-baked bread. 'Cause that's just what my jelly belly needs.
My latest obsession (these come in week-long waves, as Greg can attest) is bread-making. The domestic arts—or at least the more pioneerish, less necessary ones like bread-making, knitting, canning—hold a romantic appeal for me, and every so often I pick one and become myopically focused on it. Somewhere in my mind I have a fantasy of living on a farm, raising goats (and, of course, making goat's milk cheese) and chickens (whose funky-colored, ethically attained eggs will grace our breakfast table), and growing enough fresh veggies and fruit not just for our daily meals, but also to last us through the long winter. In the evenings I sit on my antique, but comfortable, couch by the fire, knitting and hand-sewing cute-as-a-button hats and Waldorf-inspired playthings for my (GREG: COVER YOUR EYES) six kids.
But then I remember: I can barely keep our 5x8 plot of garden alive, I tire easily of knitting, and I relish small-city living, which allows me to have impromptu conversations with neighbors, walk to playgrounds and coffee shops, and buy things like coconuts and Jerusalem artichokes without driving 100 miles. So I try on the breadmaker (or canner, or knitter, or seamstress) hat for a week or a month, and I get my pioneer-woman fix.
Oh, and this weekend I'm going out to the sticks to my friend Katie's house to learn to make cheese with her (count 'em) six kids.