Figuratively. Each day she talks more and more, albeit in her own language. She is getting adept at repeating sounds and recognizing new words. Already I can see she is leaving behind hand signs and wanting to vocalize what she wants. One of her favorites, yelled with stentorian might, is “More!” This is the correct answer to the question, “Do you want some more bread?”
Of course this highlights the importance of switching to a non-cursing household. Which we are most definitely f#$king not. I will take the blame for this, as my wife was a silver-tongued sylph before she met me. Now she can drop a cluster of F-bombs like a diving Stuka. Since we now understand that Baby Harbat is listening to what we’re saying, I don’t want her first sentence to be, “More f#$king bread, daddy!”
I had two near-disaster bread experiences this weekend. Well, three. The first was my attempt at wheat sandwich bread. I substituted half of the bread flour in the Heavenly Sandwich bread recipe with whole wheat flour. I know, I know, stop gasping. I also forgot 1/3 cup of water. The dough was as dry as a (should I?) Bible Belt county on Sunday. Which means it needed one more jigger, just to loosen it up a bit.
The bread was saved by the addition of some milk and careful attention to the look of the dough. This is what I learned: trust your instincts. If something looks wrong with your dough, it probably is. If you are new to making bread, you have no instincts, so for God’s sake read the recipe twice.
I then congratulated myself on the fix and made the same mistake with the next loaf: forgot the water again. Mistake three was in some riseka I made last night. Lesson: don’t use cream that expired over a month ago. I was just about to add it and I licked the rim of the empty cream container. Holy. Lord. I can now tell you what expired cream tastes like. Imagine hitting an old gym sock for a few seconds with a blowtorch. Then bury that in a cow pattie with some lemon rind and let it sit for a month.
I’ll leave you with today’s random event. I just got a message on my cell phone that was ten seconds of background noise, like a person waiting to speak, then deciding against it. The number is from Perth Andover in New Brunswick, less than five miles east of the U.S./Canada border with Maine. When I called the number back, the Verizon lady told me the number was no longer in service. I think it’s the black helicopter agency. They finally found me.
Writer, architect, father, husband.
That's f#$ing funny, dude!
I don't know, combine the stream of consciousness easy flow babble sound with lots of salty language and you'll have a pint-sized hip hop artist– teach her some beat box sounds first, ground her in some good street basics, the language of drug paraphernalia and sex trade . I'll send you my copy of 1001 Names for Female Human Beings and their Genitalia, None of Them Nice and she'll be on her way to stardom.
I think Harbat would really jive on the f#$ing beat box/sex trade jive Dude. Go for it! Think about what a huge hit she'd be in Day Care!