Delicious Culinary Accident

When I was staying at home all day (the first time) two things became my “bread & butter*”: Days of Our Lives and cooking a fabulous supper. I’ve fallen off the housewife wagon again this past week. In fact, I’m watching Days of Our Lives right now. I’m what they call a multi-tasker.  

I have a Degree in Nutrition – yeah I dropped that line – but oddly enough, I didn’t learn to cook in school. I will be the first to admit there have been some disasters along the way. JoMT has never once told me he didn’t enjoy a meal I created. When asked if he likes it he always nods and smiles. I’m not sure if this means he loves my cooking so much he’s speechless, or he uses his full mouth to avoid telling me how much I suck as a housewife. Worst insult ever! I manage to beat him to the first bite of each dish so I know the truth before I ask, and I’m telling you honestly there are some misses.

I have become more risky and experimental, even creating my own recipes. This reminds me, I have to start writing them down! Maybe I’m alone on this one, but there are times where even I am surprised at my skill level.

For instance, the other day I ate leftover pumpkin soup from the freezer. I know I made it from scratch (the pumpkin was grown in my parents’ garden) a few weeks ago, but I have no insight into what I actually threw in there. It was the epitome of a delicious culinary accident and God help me if I can duplicate it in the future. By the way, next Christmas when you’re enjoying a rum and egg nog, throw a little bit of that nutmeg into your dish too. It’s great in squash soups, dipping sauces, and apple pie. Think Swiss Chalet, but better.

In December, I was over visiting my parents and having a relaxed drink and discussion with my dad. My mom tends to talk to herself (more than the average person) and it’s kind of a running joke in our family. It drives my dad absolutely nuts and he has managed to block her out when she’s talking to herself and sometimes when she’s talking to him. Anyway, she was obsessively cleaning her house (no wonder I’m a freak) and she says to herself,

“I smell burning, why? There is nothing in the oven!”

Odd, I know.

“Oh wait, the bread maker!”

Smoke. Pluming black smoke.

My dad is a problem solver. You know that book “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus”? My dad is from Mars. He saw smoke and, while my Mom was panicking, he unplugged the machine creating the smoke. Easy.

“It’s OK, Mom. It looks cooked.”

Nope. Still dough.

She says, “Maybe we can make buns in the oven.” (This is hilarious because my sister is doing this same thing, but with a baby).

My grandma taught me how to make buns about 18 years ago. That was the sole instance I was exposed to such a thing but somehow it came naturally to me. The buns were quite heavy, however, I’m happy with the way they turned out. It was just another delicious culinary accident.

If you have ever made buns or seen buns being made, you know there is kind of an awkward thing you do with your pointer and middle fingers and your other hand and then you pinch off the excess dough. I won’t spell it out for you here because I don’t want this post to come up in any questionable Internet searches, but I had this graphic conversation with my sister (the one with the bun in the oven).

“I made buns today. Pretty proud of myself. Do you remember how?”

“Oh, awesome! Like this, right?”

As she demonstrates the finger thing I laugh to myself, “Well, there is now no question about how that bun got in the oven.”

*If you clicked on the photo because you thought I was pregnant, get outta here Nosy Nancy. Just to be clear, I’m not.
bun

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