Now, to be fair, I did not witness the following event. I was at the grocery store, probably trying to decide what in the world a lentil was and where one would find it.
The Players: a cup of coffee, a two and a half year old, an eleven month old, a lap top, and a rickety TV tray.
The Scenario: one can only assume, but I think the coffee was an innocent bystander.
The Result: a six year old lap top computer, cut down in the prime of life.
Sigh. And, I’m not surprised.
I knew something was amiss when I got a text from The Hubs, saying, “What do you say we go out tonight and buy a new laptop? A few of the keys on here don’t work anymore.”
When I got home, I discovered when he said, “a few keys,” what he actually meant was “the majority of the keyboard.” We’ll, except the comma and the backspace. Important keys, to be sure, but not nearly enough through which one can craft a novel.
I’m not entirely sure what I said next. I have a feeling it was somewhat argumentative and not adhering to my grandfather’s admonishment, “Keep Sweet.”
In fact, I have a feeling it was something more along the lines of something you might hear a drunken sailor say.
To which, The Hubs said,
To which, I slammed a door.
2012 is going to go down in history as the Year of Laptop Death. We came into the year with two laptops, one of which just decided to lock up and then shut off, never to turn back on, and one that currently smells like French vanilla creamer. This is also the year I discovered I would rather slam my hand repeatedly in the silverware drawer than watch the children’s program, “Gaspard and Lisa.”
I will, however, borrow on their exclamation of, “Catastrophe!” as I segue into this weekend’s other kick in the face.
So, I decided I wanted to try and make my grandfather’s Salt Risin’ Bread. The recipe I had was written on a slip of paper and in parenthesis said, “The Old Timer Version.” SRB is notoriously hard to make. Evidently, it’s even harder to make the “Old Timer” way.
In short, the night before, you put together a bizarre mixture of sliced potatoes, corn meal, salt, and boiling water. Cover. Let sit overnight.
Why? I don’t know.
But I followed the steps. The recipe, however, made no mention of adding yeast. At any point. I failed to be concerned by this until it was far too late.
In lieu of calling my grandfather, since he’s been dead since 2009, I called my mother. His daughter. The provider of the recipe.
“Oh, I’ve never made SRB,” she reported. “It’s complicated.”
Complicated is an understatement. I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best, but after an hour of rising followed by the requisite baking, this is what I pulled out of the oven:
Yeah. Salt Un-Risin’ Bread. Salt Sinking Bread. Salt “you could brick in a fireplace with these loaves” Bread.
I should have been suspicious when at my Uncle Bill’s funeral two weeks ago, a whole table full of Southern women confirmed they had never made SRB, because “It’s complicated.”
Back to the drawing board. Those sad, flat little loaves are the perfect representation of my weekend.
But, hey. I’m not going to let it get me down. Three generations of my family, my mother included, can’t make SRB, so I’m in good company! And the laptop. Well, yeah, that’s a real kick in the ovaries, but I’m scrappy. I’m tough. I’m 120 pounds of coiled steel: I may be writing on notebook paper and blogging from my phone, but I’ll get there. Stranger things have happened.
Like, for example, earlier this week at work. I was walking down the hall after picking up my mail, when I felt something fall into my hand. I was horrified it was a bug. It was, randomly, a chocolate chip. I don’t know where it came from. But there it was.
I’ve heard of life throwing curveballs, but not chocolate chips. I’m okay with chocolate chips. Hurl away, life, hurl away!