I had developped a bit of mystique surrounding bread machine bread. We didn’t have a machine at home. Either we bought the dollar loaves from Super A or we made our own bread with Mum’s Bosch mixer (a treat, for sure, both the mixer and the homemade bread which dissappeared twice as fast as a regular loaf.) To me, the people who had bread makers were the same kind of people that always had new, nice stuff. I began to equate bread machine bread with affluence, even if it did have that ridiculous hole in the bottom and it was an odd shape.
My last year at Ricks, my old friend Amy roomed with me. We stayed in a small, disgusting, downstairs apartment with one other girl. It was a crazy year. That was the year Paul and I got engaged, and he moved to Hawaii. That was the year I supposedly began sleepwalking and talking (but not sending myself emails, I’m not crazy.) Amy’s grandparents had given us a bread maker for our apartment, and we rejoiced at the idea of coming home to the smell of fresh bread.
Nothing is ever as good as advertised, and this was no exception. The machine didn’t knead properly, wasn’t timed correctly, and never gave us a satisfying loaf. There were often pockets of flour in the bread, and it was gnarled and unappetizing. It wasn’t the first bread machine with which I had been unsuccessful, but it would be the last.
I came home from class one afternoon to see a gnarled, nasty half-loaf of unproperly made bread on the counter with a kitchen knife stabbed in the top, pegging a note to the bread. I shuddered.
Breadmaker has PMS. Do not use.