Lately my wife has been accusing me of overfeeding our dog.
The dog does not get weighed at home but women have this sort of special way of
eyeballing things they think are getting larger.
In any event, Lucy and I continued our hidden habit of
enjoying Biscotti with our coffee in the morning.
Recently Lucy has been limping and not as active as she
usually is so I was the designated driver to take her to the veterinarian. I
have done this hundreds of times.
Was I concerned? No.
Should I have
been concerned? Yes.
At the appointed hour Lucy and I head out to my SUV and I
open the back and tell her to hop in. She looked at me like I had just
suggested she grab a couple Sherpas and head up Mt. Everest or whichever
mountain the Sherpas work these days.
I begged.
I cajoled.
I offered treats.
Nothing worked. So it is now obvious I am going to be late
for the appointment and I am going to have to lift her into the car.
This would be a good time to admit my wife’s weight
estimating eyes are in good working order. After four attempts to lift the dog
off the ground and into the car, I was on the ground panting for breath.
One decision was made right on the spot No more Biscotti for
either of us. I grabbed my cell, called my wife at work and gave her two
choices: come at once and help me with getting the dog to the vet or pick what
is behind Door #2 which will be taking me to the emergency room.
She picked the first choice. Between us we got Lucy into my
wife’s car, which has a lower threshold.
So there I was, driving down life’s highways and byways,
trying to avoid the exit ramps, when I arrive at the vet. Lucy makes the rounds
of all the trees and stumps trying to find one not yet marked by another dog,
and in we go. My vet always weighs the dog first thing.
Oh boy. And I have to tell my wife.
All went pretty well. The dog is under house arrest and not
allowed to run around and play and the two of us are on diets.
After a nice lunch I decided to bake some bread. I get this
urge 2-3 times a year. The one thing I have learned from bad past experiences
is that you better have good yeast. So I go to the store looking through hundreds
of packets of yeast all of which clearly state: best used by November 20th.
It being December 2nd I bring this matter to the attention of the
cashier who, at my request, brings it to the attention of the manager. I tell
them they have hundreds of packets of yeast that are past their “use by” date
and I would like them to open a new box, filled with healthy yeast.
It was around then that that the manager held up the packet
of yeast and request I consider that the “use by” date of November 20 was
followed by 2015.
Back to the house. Lay out all the tools for making bread.
Happy, happy, happy to have good yeast. I do all the work. Everything gets
mixed just right. Then I get to read the paper while the yeast does its thing,
something called rising. When next I look at the bread it will have grown twice
the size it had been and will have little bubbles.
Nope.
My yeast didn’t rise. I cannot think of any excuse other
than maybe I wasn’t supposed to use it UNTIL NOVEMBER 20,2015.
Anyway I soldiered on. Clearly I was going to have a
hamburger size loaf of bread but I was going to eat it anyway. So every 15
minutes I am kneading it, covering it, and wishing it well until we get to the
final step, put it on the cookie sheet, sprits the top, and let that baby brown
for about 25 minutes.
I head back to the newspaper in the living room. After about
10 minutes my ADT alarm is going off. I look up and the house is filling
rapidly with smoke. I race to the kitchen and try to put in the code that says
“don’t send every poor fireman in town to my house cause it really is not on
fire.” Well, that isn’t one of the ADT choices. Their choice is to assume your
house is burning down, send the fire department and then call you to see if you
are breathing.
Since I had put down all the storm windows I couldn’t find
any way to get rid of the smoke. In the meantime, red lights were flashing out
in front of the house. The dog was barking, not because of the smoke or the
sore leg, she just didn’t like the red lights. I am frantically entering the
STOP CODE for ADT. But their equipment in India or whatever banana republic has
people who work for 24 cents an hour keeps telling them FIRE FIRE FIRE.
In the meantime the three firemen who are now in my house
could not be more helpful. I learn they have a mega fan that sucks smoke right
out of your house. They were kind enough to tell me that while it is sucking smoke out it is
sucking cold air back in. I asked them if it might be able to make bread rise
but they were not amused.
But the guy in India must have gotten the news because the
alarm stopped.
Immediately I get a call from my wife who is at work. Seems
they called her when they couldn’t get me and she was tasked to see whether I
was still walking above ground and taking nourishment or whether I looked more
like a corn fritter.
I learned in college that the best writers always leave some
mystery at the end of their stories. So here is mine: just exactly what do you
think I am going to do with that damn bread?
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