Reflections on loving God, being Catholic, being a woman, being ill, loving life and anything else that comes to mind.

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Q Is For Quick Breads

“This is good,” Ella took a huge bite of applesauce, raisin bread. “It’s even better with butter,” I told her taking the butter dish from the refrigerator and placing it on the table. “Would you show me how to make this?” she slathered butter on her remaining bread and took another bite. “It’s just a quick bread,” I told her over my shoulder as I washed the dishes from my baking experiment. “There’s a section in the big cookbook,” I raised one soapy hand and pointed at the dark green cloth covered book. “Just follow the directions and once you understand the proportions, try using substitutions.” I put the last dish in the rack to drain. “The trick is never beat the batter. Just stir it until the dry ingredients are moist.” “Your dad says a good cook doesn’t need a cookbook,” she ate the last piece. I took a deep breath, I guess she doesn’t know. I flashed my Friend. He hasn’t told her. I shrugged, “I’ve got homework.”

“What’s this?” Ames poked the hard brown shape on his plate. “Bran muffins!” Ella announced brightly. Ames poked it again. “Bran bricks,” he whispered. Charles, Matthieu, and I laughed silently. The man walked into the kitchen, “Something smells good.” He looked into the saucepan on the range, “What’s for lunch?” “I made some soup and bran muffins,” Ella’s flashed him a huge smile. The man poked the hard missiles in the muffin tin. “I just remembered,” he jingled his keys in his pocket. “I have to meet a client in half an hour.” He headed for the back door. “At least take a muffin with you,” Ella called after him; he was already pulling the car out of the driveway. Two hours later he returned bearing the fragrance of french fries.

“You don’t have to eat them,” I told Ames and Matthieu. “Just put them in the refrigerator.” Ames knocked the raisin muffin against the table, “First bran bricks, now raisin rocks!” Matthieu and I laughed quietly; Ella played the piano in the small parlour. “She won’t use recipes,” I shrugged. “This would break a window,” Ames hefted the raisin-studded missile on the palm of his hand. “Don’t!” I commanded. “You’ll just cause trouble. Just put it in the dish in the refrigerator.” We quickly stowed the raisin rocks as the piano music ceased and Ella’s footsteps announced her pending entrance.

No comments: