It seems lately that I've been prone to disaster in my kitchen.
In the second year of my marriage, my husband told me he felt like he had been deprived of one of the classic experiences of being a newlywed--eating burnt dinners. I wasn't a gourmet chef by any means, but while Mr. Brown Eyes was in paramedic school I found a bunch of simple recipes and made it a point to cook him dinner every night. I made some awesome dinners those days. I felt like a natural-born housewife.
We've been married three years now, and in the last week I've burnt pancakes, bacon, and rice.
What is wrong with me?
I could say I'm just making up for that first year, that I feel bad for robbing Mr. Brown Eyes of that timeless newlywed experience.
But I think it would be closer to the truth to say that Baby Brown Eyes is stealing my brain cells. "Baby Brain" is an honest-to-goodness real affliction. It's not that I feel less intelligent now that I've had a baby, I just find myself doing little, stupid things that I never did before.
Like calling people by the wrong name. Misplacing everything. Forgetting things people have said to me.
Like burning breakfast.
I remember reading somewhere that a breastfeeding mother has more bloodflow to her breasts than she does to her brain. Whether that's true or not, it sounds like a good explanation for why my brain is so feeble these days. The poor thing is being robbed. By a pair of boobs, no less.
On Father's Day I decided to make a batch of crescent rolls in my bread machine. Not a difficult task. Dump the ingredients in, hit the button, and--voila!--bread dough. Except I decided to double the recipe; and it wasn't until after I dumped the ingredients in that I thought, "Hmm, maybe that wasn't such a good idea." But it was too late.
The cycle went fine, though, until the last rising. That double-batch of crescent roll dough rose so merrily it spilled over the pan and made a glorious, sticky mess. It still isn't completely cleaned up.
I guess there are worse things than having an over-abundance of bread dough.
At least I didn't burn it.
Speaking of bread, does anyone have a foolproof bread recipe? I cannot bake bread to save my life. I mean, I can bake it, but it never turns out right--it's always dry and crumbly. Even my mom's recipe--the one that turns out perfect every time she bakes it--was slightly less than dismal when I got my hands on it.
Maybe I am just not destined to be a bread-baker.
Or maybe it's just baby brain.
I don't know. I'm going to stop thinking about it now.
My brain hurts.
The Brown-Eyed Girl