Betty Crocker I ain't

I think I've mentioned before that I'm not very domestic. Not that I don't want to be, rather it doesn't come naturally. I can't sew (not even a hem, my mother-in-law thought I was kidding about that one), I am a garden killer and I don't craft, knit, scrapbook or bake. I know what you are thinking... I mean, seriously. What the hell DO I do? Well, I pour a mean glass of Merlot, I love reading and writing, and I like THINKING about being domestic.

So the other day when my in-laws came to town, I felt the need to show my value around the house -- i.e. I baked. Banana bread. For the VERY FIRST TIME. And, it didn't suck. Color me surprised honestly. I did it while chatting with my mother-in-law in the kitchen and truly the only "duh" moment happened when she asked me if I was just going to stir all that dough by hand, or maybe use the actual mixer sitting next to me on the counter. Huh. No shit, THAT is what that's for? I thought it was for Ben to make cookies and mashed potatoes in. So I even used my mixer for the first time, and that bread turned out just, well, like it was supposed to. I mean, I kept saying "Hey, this is pretty good, right? I mean, RIGHT?" and everyone was like, "Liz, it tastes great, but I mean, its BANANA bread. I think they do this for a learning activity in like, KINDERGARTEN" and I'm all, yeah, yeah, I hear you, but it tastes like REAL banana bread, I mean, RIGHT?!!?

So of course I get all high and mighty on my domesticity and decide to anoint myself #1 mommy and baker extraordinaire. And while high on all this power, this AWESOMENESS that is me, I decided to combine these two titles into one amazing afternoon for Kate and I. We went shopping and got all set up in the kitchen to make pumpkin bread, you know, to celebrate fall with a little orange yumminess.

Well, the story just goes downhill from there. Because my banana bread experience was a fluke, and of course the REAL me decided to show up to this little pumpkin party. First off, I forgot butter. A kind of necessity for bread. But did that stop me? Nope, I just threw in some cream cheese, because, um, same consistency kind of. Right? And then Kate "helped" by stirring the flour so vigorously that half of it flew out of the bowl, but instead of re-measuring I just tossed in a handful of flour and THERE. That looks about right. Throw in a little extra pumpkin to make up for skimping on the cream cheese (I didn't have much left), and I had myself some fairly good-tasting dough. I didn't exactly follow the recipe per say, but, eh, I'm sure it will bake fine.

So I poured that lumpy (LUMPY!?!) goodness into a bread pan and popped it into my toaster oven (don't ask).  It puffed up on one side, then started to burn in the little tinderbox of death (my new sweet nickname for our toaster oven). I panicked, and despite a full HALF HOUR left on the timer, I took the bread out and did the old stick a toothpick in to see if it is done trick. Came out fine. So that other half hour of baking was, like, optional -- right?

But fast forward to bread-breaking time, and guess what turned out to be raw in the middle? I mean, yeah, I ate some around the edges because it was like a pumpkin brownie that hadn't cooked all the way yet and YUM, but it certainly wasn't bread. And it certainly wasn't edible after that first gooey bite.

Luckily, Kate didn't know that our afternoon adventure had a disastrous ending, she was just stoked to be making a huge, mother-approved mess. And that was fine by me.

Kate wasn't sure what we were about to do, but she had a banana, her Dora cup and
my approval to STAND ON A CHAIR. So, we were pretty pumped. 

Notice how clean her face is? This did not last long. 

Raw flour is a fine accompaniment to a fresh banana. Yummy.

Kate not only ate raw flour, she decided it was a good look to wear as well.
Such a trend setter, for Fall 2010 flour white is the new black.

We love, love, LOVE making a mother-approved mess.
Although we do it with a death grip on our banana.

After drenching ourselves in flour, we decided to take a turn on the catwalk.
With a weird hippie headband.