Maybe it's European Bread

3-4 day old, barely-chipped, bread

"Baking bread relaxes me." That phrase actually came from someone's mouth. Again. Twice, I have heard this and both times it set off a chain of memories.

My mother used to bake the most wonderful cinnamon bread. She timed it so that the bread would be warm and ready to eat when my brother and I got home from school. Those were such good memories and I think of them when I smell cinnamon bread. Soooo,
I decide to try it to create some of those great memories for my sons.

It was not fun. It was work. Mix, mix, mix. Knead and wait. Knead and wait. Cover and wait. The process went something like that. But I would learn and get used to it and I would enjoy it the way my mother did and, after all, I was creating those good memories.

Finally, it was ready to put in the oven but it did not look very big. I put in just a teeny, tiny sprinkle more of yeast, covered it, and let it sit a bit longer. Wow, I thought at the time, it fit the loaf pan perfectly and looked just like it should. Of course, I really had no idea what bread is supposed to look like at that point, before it is baked, but that thought didn't cross my mind until just now as I write this.

The temperature was set according to the recipe and then I set the timer. I have been known to burn things or use the wrong setting (broil instead of bake, etc.) so I triple-checked those things and they were just right. Whew. The hard part was over.

As it baked, I sang and danced around the house while doing the normal household chores. Although I always dance around the house, singing is something I don't do because I am horrible (I threaten to sing aloud if my boys' misbehave when they have friends over---it works every time). But no one was around to hear me and I was so excited about the bread. It began to smell heavenly as it baked.

My husband and children were going to be so proud of me---I couldn't wait to surprise them. I had to make sure I did not burn it, so I made frequent checks.

A friend called and during our conversation, I heard a clanking sound coming from the kitchen. The bread had risen out the sides of the pan, about 2-3 inches, and was about to hit the top of the oven. The clanking was the pan moving to accommodate my growing bread. But my bread was nice and brown, and had cooked long enough so I took it out to cool. It was a bit lopsided, but I didn't care.

The big bread looked great! I knew everyone would eat a lot because they love cinnamon bread. The memories were going to be so special.

Everyone praised my beautiful, but lopsided loaf of bread and we all gathered at the candle-lit table to have the inaugural piece. My husband began to cut it with a dull knife that wouldn't slice very well. I was anxious and ready for my bread so I grabbed a giant bread knife and sawed with the serrated edges. Didn't work. My husband tried again and still, no sliced cinnamon bread.

In Europe, they all have that bread that is very hard on the outside, but the inside is incredibly soft. I must have cooked European bread!

We finally got out the electric knife but it would not cut the bread, either. By that time we realized my beautiful bread probably was not edible so we took it outside and pounded it with a hammer a couple of times. Still, only one giant loaf. We gave up and threw it out to our two dogs. One of them gnawed on it for a little while but soon gave up. The next day the dogs were playing with my special bread as if it were a toy. That bread lingered in the backyard for over a month. Then, one day, POOF! and it was gone.