A man walked into a bar; actually not a bar, but my kitchen at sunrise where he, my lover, found me semi-comatose on the counter. He revived me with mouth-to-mouth chocolate licorice sticks, which awakened me when I started to gag. He is a street cop who often tells me I have the right to remain silent, though I rarely do.
I explained I was baking rolls for the young un’s which was partially true. I was also there because I am competitive and enjoy beating that self-activating pre-set anal personality coffee machine which is always functioning before I am. “Na, Na, I got here first,” I snarl. It is also urgent that I slurp the first drops of Java before the kids are awake, and believe me; it is for their own well-being. This helps me avoid causing fear on their face when they see me pre-caffeine before the hot liquid makes its way down my esophagus spreading warmth to my evil spirit.
A huge sip of the burning beverage brings forth a supernatural transformation. My eyes flutter and focus, my body suddenly appears to be life-like as a garland of rose petals cascade from my form. Angels hover and a white light frames my essence. My voice finally expresses itself in a lilting “Good morning world.” The miracle that is known as “shrewish penicillin” will again rescue my family from the dangerous dawn.
I suggest ever so gently to the little ones that they “get their buns in the kitchen” tra la la. If that does not do the trick then the aroma of my wonderful, sticky, yummy homemade buns will.
No one but that spying, Starbucks-rejected coffee pot knows that I can only bake one item and that it is not even my recipe. It is prepared from store bought frozen dough. (This admission may be printed only after my journey to gluten heaven).
The Deception:
I prepare from scratch ... that is, I remove the wrapping from defrosted bread mix. I punch it a few times and then it is oven ready. I can only do that after my first nip of Joe or it will be just too bruised to bake.
I dribble melted butter, brown sugar, pecans, and put some on the dough as well and then place it in the oven.
The scent gets the kids moving. My dashing patrolman has that special look in his eyes as well or he has lost a contact lens.
If the siblings are running late and choose to eat breakfast at school and have to dash to the bus with iPod, or Port-a- Potties in their ear, I stand at the door with a sign “Garlic Bread Tonight” (same loaf, different toppings) before their escape. They each give a silent thumb up.
In the evening, I follow the same procedure with my pretend creation even dabbing a bit of flour on my nose. The change for the evening’s recipe is accomplished by adding enough garlic powder to the butter to keep Dr. Mc Dreamy from stalking me, which seems to be working. Then I sprinkle on a cup of grated Parmesan Cheese. Oops. But first I wipe up some of the cheese off the floor.
I bake and serve “the old family recipe” to the cheering crowds who think I’m real swell. When they become adults, if the truth becomes known, I suppose they will need therapy.
Please keep this secret for their sake. Plus, I do not need to receive Martha Stewart’s and Good Housekeeping’s “Seal of Disgust” yet again.
Or else, a woman walks into a bar …
The End
