Chris went to a bread-making class at King Arthur yesterday and returned home with beautiful loaves of bread he'd baked...
...plus dough he'd started there and brought home.
Last night he baked another round loaf and a delicious bread that I wrongly called a focaccia. This thing was heavily armed: drizzled with a little olive oil, dusted with parm and salt, speckled with garlic. It was WARM, people. Slightly crunchy exterior, soft inside. I'd like to have seen you try and resist (although if you'd been at my house, you wouldn't have had to; I wouldn't have let you near it). If the non-focaccia had handed me a machine gun and asked me to rob a bank, I would have...well, I would have gotten in bed and pulled the covers over my head, because if your food is talking to you, you're in trouble. And if your food is trying to get you to commit crimes, you're in BIG trouble.
All my dinner-making plans went out the window. There was no trip to the market, no making of a salad, even. The non-focaccia would not let me.
I would tell you to send ransom money, but at this point I have actually eaten my captor. I was both hostage and SWAT team; how that's for multitasking?
