Saturday morning I woke early.  I knew what I wanted to do.  I had been planning and plotting all week long.  I covered the dining room table in mason jars, each jar filled with flours and starches waiting to be dipped into.  Waiting to be discovered.  The anticipation grew as I thumbed through recipes one last time.  Each night during the week I tried to pare down my selections, but then a new post would show up in a blog I follow or I’d stumble onto a new page of a cookbook still largely unexplored and I’d be back to more recipes than one girl has time for.  In typical me fashion, in the end – I made them all.  I made the blueberry lemon muffins, the blackberry muffins, the apple rosemary muffins, the quinoa cranberry muffins, the biscuits, the quinoa breakfast bars, the almond butter brownies, the pumpkin granola and the chocolate chip pumpkin cookies.


Sunday was a different sort of day.  I pulled all the vegetable fragments out of the freezer and simmered a vegetable stock while two chickens baked in the oven.  I had two pots of quinoa simmering, one with the vegetable stock and one with the mexican flaired juices from the roasted chicken.  I made a pot of Mexcian Pumpkin Soup.  I pulled the meat from the chickens and roasted the bones.  The chicken stock simmered for hours and I’m left with gorgeous jars of amber hued liquid goodness.  I was nearly done, the flours waiting to be put back in the cabinet and the pots waiting to be scrubbed.  I couldn’t get the blog post I had seen out of my head.  The bread in the photograph had captured my attention.  The ingredients are not all readily available here, the recipe having been written in Europe, and I had not planned on that lovely loaf factoring into my day.  Once glance at  the clock and the flours on the table and I grabbed my lap top.  I pulled the recipe up and sorted out which flours I wanted to use.  With a whispered prayer I measured and mixed.  I waited for the yeast to foam and then I waited for the bread to rise.  I pulled the risen bread out of the slightly warm bowl and discovered something most astonishing.  It felt like bread dough.  I’ve become accustomed to the batter like texture of most doughs.  This was nothing like that.  This was firm and stretchy.  I gently slid that little round loaf into the oven and flipped the oven light on.  Rather than doing the dishes sitting in my sink, I watched that loaf rise, turn golden, and when I slid it back out of the oven I tapped the top of the bread.  Hollow echo returned to my ears and I knew, this was bread.  Warm pieces dipped in roasted red pepper infused olive oil had me dancing happy dances on my tile floor.  Suddenly it no longer mattered that a few hours earlier there was poultry blood wreaking havoc on my sanitary kitchen.  I nearly forgot the small figurine that I watched slide off the shelf and crash onto the tile floor I was now dancing upon.  The bread, it was real bread.  Honest to goodness artisan bread despite my alterations.  I want to play with that same recipe again, I want to see what else I can make it come.  I want to pull out those jars and play again but that first batch?  It worked just fine.

I may not have folded all the laundry, and yes I did forget to water the tomato plant and herbs yet again, but my freezer is stocked with muffins, rolls, and bread.  My refrigerator shelves are filled with homemade stocks and beautiful autumn infused soups.  That loaf of bread, the half that remains, waits in the freezer for my Love to taste when he arrives.  Oh, and that little figurine?  Sister glued her back together for me.  All in all, I declare it a delightful weekend.