"It's Baaaaaaack!" (a comb and a brush and a bag to be mushed)

Vi had a friend over this weekend. When we went to pick her up, Shana piled into our van with the usual sleepover gear, plus a gallon-sized Ziploc bag and a page of instructions, which she handed to me unceremoniously. I LOL'd. "It's baaaaaack," I chortled. (What's that from? Chucky? Freddy? Some '80s horror film series, I think.) Three years ago, I received another such bag, and I wrote a blog post about it. Only then, I didn't have a blog to post it on. So here you go – my former reflections on the 10-day culinary challenge that boomerangs ... eventually. (The nice thing about re-reading this, for me, is to discover that I've actually made a bit of progress in my life. The kitchen/cooking deficiencies I described back then are not what I would call a "big deal" now. One other note: I still miss Dale's Market.)

Bread recipe breeds friendship
(Or: Amish bread and friends named Sharon)

About two weeks ago, a friend named Sharon gave me a bag of batter along with a two-page list of instructions for making "Amish Friendship Bread." Ten days' worth of instructions. "Do not refrigerate batter, Do not use metal spoons or bowls with batter, If air gets in the bag, let it out..."

I let air out of my lungs as I read on: Day 1: Do nothing. (I relaxed. I can do that.) Day 2: Mush the bag. (That's it? Mush it? You mean, like pick it up, squish it around and put it down? I can do that.) Day 3: Mush the bag… (OK, I told my husband, who is even less culinary than I am – I think I can handle this.)

But by Day 6, I wasn't so sure. So far, I'd only had to pick up the bag and squish it around once a day – and let the air out of the bag a couple of times. What I hadn't counted on was having to protect the bag from my 2-year-old daughter, my 3-year-old son, and my cat. (Higher – oh, how I yearn for higher shelves, for practically everything I own. Every parent of a toddler understands this.)

On Day 6, I added sugar and milk to the bag, according to the instructions. And I mushed the bag. And put it up high. I joked to my husband, "I'm not so sure I want to be Sharon's 'friend' anymore."

We survived – though perilously – Days 7, 8 and 9, and finally the Big Day arrived: Day 10, Baking Day. I fumbled through my cupboards: Not one loaf pan to be found, nevermind the two the recipe called for. I called my mother. Later in the day, she sent over two loaf pans, one ceramic, one metal. Oh no! "Do not use metal spoons or bowls with batter…" Did that rule apply to metal pans too? I called my sister-in-law (she is very culinary), who assured me that the metal rule only applied to the batter, which would be kept going when I got to the end – I'd see. (Sigh.)

I had to work all afternoon. Then I had a chiropractor appointment. We ordered pizza for supper. (Did I mention we're not very culinary?) It was about 8 o'clock in the evening before I attempted to bake the batter. I poured it into a non-metal bowl, I began adding ingredients and stirring with a non-metal spoon. At one point my 2-year-old tried very hard to grab the bowl off the counter and dump the precious batter onto our kitchen floor. I rescued the batter (again) and proceeded with the long list of ingredients – at least a dozen, which is a lot for me.

At one point, the instructions required me to divide the batter into four new gallon-sized plastic sealed bags, which, miraculously, I had on hand. I poured one cup of batter into each bag, marked the bags with the date, and wondered which of my "friends" wouldn't mind this rigmarole.

I carried on with the list. I had pre-heated the oven and prepared the borrowed loaf pans and was nearing the end of the end when I discovered it: I had no baking soda. The recipe called for ½ t. – that's one-half of a teaspoon, even I understood. I had none. By this time, it was 8:30 p.m., Dale's Market closed over a year ago (I still miss it), and I didn't want to drive across town to Pawlak's or Tops and definitely not Wal-Mart to buy a half-teaspoon of baking soda!

But I had to do something. I'd labored over and protected this blob of mush for 10 straight days and I wasn't about to let it go to waste – not now. So I did the unthinkable: I called my neighbor. Her name is Sharon (really). By the time I scampered the thirty paces from my side door to hers, she had generously prepared a small tub of baking soda, which I gratefully (albeit sheepishly) received. I mumbled a few words about "friendship" and "batter" and hurried back to my chaotic kitchen, where the non-metal bowl somehow sat unscathed on the counter. (I thought for sure it would be disturbed during the two minutes I had left it unattended.)

I baked the bread. It was delicious. And now I have four more bags of batter to mush. Any takers?