Bread.

For some reason known only to my inner brain workings, the title needed to have that piece of punctuation. But anyway, I digress. Of late I've been baking my own bread. It's definitely an art that needs more practice, because no matter how I tweak the recipe and follow instructions, mine comes out sadly heavy and dense. The annoying (or good, I suppose) part is that the bread tastes fantastic. There's no problem with the flavour. The crust is awesome. The damned bread just needs to be eaten while still warm, because come the morning, it is hard enough to use as a brick.

It reminds me of the time that we went over to Rich's place and his mother had attempted a cake, and her (failed) cake was sitting abandoned on the kitchen bench. This, too, was hard as a rock. It ended up being kicked around the front yard and stayed disturbingly intact. In fact, when it finally experienced its structural failure, it only broke in half. And each half was still capable of inflicting a bruise through the toe of my Doc Martens.