The day wasn’t going well already. You know how it is, you wake
up in the morning with that migraine or the pounding headache in
the back of your head. The kids are up at the crack of dawn
(literally) and they keep coming into the bedroom to “help you”
wake up. You fumble your way down stairs to a screaming chorus
of, “Daddy, she won’t quit looking at me!” And then you have the
old reliable “Hey! That’s my stuff!” And what are those comments
without Back-up Plan ‘B’: “Hey! That’s my spot!” was bellowed
out as the kids fought over the fluffy pillow in my office while
watching Little House on the Prairie.

Now don’t get me wrong, my kids are great and I love them with
all my heart but they do have their days.
I wiped the sleep from my eyes as I fixed my morning lifeline, a
steaming cup of Joe (which was destined to be spilled all over
my desktop, keyboard and carpet!). After cleaning up the mess, I
headed back into the kitchen but stopped half way there to
remove the tiny doll shoe embedded in the bottom of my bare
foot. The kids were at it again. That was it! I was at the
boiling point and I could not tolerate this any longer!

I limped into the kitchen and there they were…lined up like
little soldiers waiting to be disciplined. They looked as if
they longed for, no, were begging for the stern discipline that
they had coming…the bag of flour, the sugar bowl, and the salt
shaker.

I threw the ingredients together in a powdery fury to the chorus
of a clanking, ceramic bowl. There it was. The sun peeked
through the partially drawn shades in the kitchen, gently
embracing the soft, pale contents of the mixing bowl. The dough
stared back at me, yearning to be thrown, rolled and disciplined.

I picked up the gooey substance and slammed it on the
countertop! Pounding, pushing, pulling and kneading until it
begged me for the rolling pin. I glanced at the built-in drawer
under the oven and quickly produced a rolling pin. Without mercy
I rolled, bunched up, and rolled again until the dough cried
out, “I’ve had enough!”

For the ‘Coupe de Gras’, I placed the submissive heap in a bread
pan and threw it into the oven. “There now”, I said to the
unbaked loaf. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Forty-five minutes
later I was rewarded with a delicious, toasted aroma that crept
through the house like fog on a cool morning. Peace at last. The
stress was gone. I felt great.