Hot vs. Cold

It was hot this weekend.  I have a cold.  Seems those things should go together, but they do.  I got it from Baby Harbat, then passed it to my wife.  BH just has a cough now, but I got the aching body run-over-by-a-truck feeling.  I slithered around the house over the weekend between social events, congealing on the bed or couch to “rest”.  

Sunday the pool was so inviting and the weather so warm, that I sat with Baby Harbat at the edge of the pool.  She had to put her feet in.  Then she had to stand on the top step, water up to her thighs.  Then she wanted to lunge into the pool itself.  Okay, we’ll go in and get our suits on.  She was Extremely Excited to get her bathing suit on and return to the pool.  Then we got in, and she immediately wanted to get out.  While I swam in the pool, she went to the back door and pawed at it to be let back in the house, like a dog late at night.  Then she spent the next fifteen minutes playing with a tube of sunscreen and avoiding the pool.  Eventually she did get in, and we all enjoyed splashing time and throwing toys into the pool and watching them float away.  Thus I’ve learned the secret to getting her in the pool is to give her something to throw in.  With the pump running, we could play Pooh Sticks from one end of the pool to the other.

This weekend also marked my second attempt at overnight retarding of dough.  It was such a success with the Team USA ciabatta that I thought I could repeat it.  No.  It didn’t work well with the rustic rosemary.  The bread came out with tight structure, no big bubbles, and uninspired flavor.  I know there’s something to the overnight ferment that could make my bread much better, but I need more experimenting.  Also, I’ve completely lost the ability to make a good ear in the crust.  I did it once last month with an olive bread in the crock pot.  Since then my bread fills up like a balloon, inflating any scoring into a filled scar.  Sometimes when you try to make progress, you feel like you’re going backwards.  I’m hoping this is the hopeless act two of my rustic bread, and I’m about to turn the corner towards victory.

 

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Writer, architect, father, husband.

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