The Focaccia of Doom!

Seldom do you think of cosmic disaster when reaching for the bread flour, but today, I missed all the omens that my attempt to make focaccia bread was doomed. Earlier, my cookbooks on the counter had fallen over (they are usually against the wall, and that is usually enough to stop them from falling over). I put them back, shook my head, and ignored this sign. Omens! Later, my antique sugar bowl, set on the back of the stove, fell but landed safely on the counter. It is made of Vaseline glass and is slightly radioactive. Signs!

Aside: Corwin accidently broke the previous sugar bowl, which was also made of the same uranium glass. This loss sent us to ask the local recycling authority to learn what to do with ‘used’ uranium. Do you just trash it or put it in the glass recycling? Or do we need special handling? I figured radioactive trash would cause some reaction that might involve folks with guns and warrants. No, just trash. On Sunday, I was relieved not having to call the local authorities and check if any policies on radioactive waste were updated. Being a liberal in Oregon and asking government folks about nuclear products seemed unwise in the new climate (back to people with guns).

The morning seemed blessed, and I rose slowly, knowing I had time before church at 11 to write my blog and enjoy breakfast with coffee, toasted homemade bread, and a banana. It was the last one. Thus, I had planned to stop at the veggie place at TV Highway and 185th on the way back from church.

Deborah called me, and we chatted briefly as I had time. She had already done some teaching (she still has some students online). Today, we would talk in the morning and then late (for Deborah). It is always a pleasure to start and end my day (or her’s) together.

I spent all my spare time chatting, doom scrolling (what liberals like me call reading the current news, unavoidably soaked in politics), and writing the blog. I rushed into the shower and did the usual things to get ready for church. Today’s tie was the whale fluke tie that Deborah bought at the Aquarium of the Pacific in Long Beach, California, to remind me of our whale watching and seeing orcas together.

Air VW the Gray was at 78% charge, which is good (about 1/3 of tank in gas engine range), and I boarded with my laptop. I might decide to have lunch out and write. Traffic was light, and I soon arrived at the church. The folks were still leaving the previous service. We rented the church to another church that met before us.

The service was the usual process. There was a tapping sound in the mics, and we checked that there was no electrical short in the huge amplifier for the organ. The organ is digital but connects to an old (like WW2 old) amp that takes enough power it could be used to weld. There was no smoke or smell (some of this old stuff is made to last forever when only used for a few hours a week). So no mouse or worse fell into the warm electronics (a repeated pulse can be an electrical fire). I reminded one of the younger folks NOT to use the fire extinguisher on an electrical fire unless they know it is safe for electrical fires (C02). Turning off the power and calling the fire department instead is best. None of that happened. It was a bad connector to a mic.

The songs were bright and happy. It is spring now (though often gray in the Pacific Northwest). The Greek scriptures of John’s Revelations were dark and some of the meanest stuff in the New Testament (at least, I think so): The Letter to the Church at Thyatira. Ken focused on the letter’s function and mostly ignored the darker parts of the text. He pointed out that the church must listen and correct its mistakes. He reviewed the connection of this letter to Old Testament commandments and made a good case that God often demands correction.

I must admit that I Googled the translation and looked at the underlying dark words while Ken spoke. I think it is incorrectly translated into English even in the New Revised Standard; it seems a modern usage and not appropriately sent in context. The reference in the text to Jezebel is, like most of Revelations (again, in my opinion), meant to create a mind-picture and not to be taken literally. The death of the offspring of sin is not meant to be killing, but the loss of faith and hope–this is how I taught this text before, and I think there is strong evidence for my direction (Jesus never says “Stone the sinners,” for example, but had dinner with them).

After the service, I gave Z the stuffed animal Deborah had sent her and a Paramount Studios portfolio. Dondrea got a pen from Battleship Iowa and a shot glass from The Olive Pit. Jack got a challenge coin from Battleship Iowa (and I finally remembered to return his memory stick). With that done, I headed out feeling off from too much coffee.

I stopped at the veggie store. They asked about my trip in the EV, which involved driving to LA and back. I told them it was interesting and enjoyable, a new way to do trips with stops for charging. I got two bags of veggies. I had tossed old veggies when I got home. I meant to eat them, but the trip with Deborah snuck up on me for cooking. Now restocked, I loaded the goodies into the cargo hold and returned to the now heavier traffic.

At home, I washed the mushrooms from the market and baked them. When they dried a bit, I added them to a hot pan with oil and stir-fried them. I added water twice to the pan and covered it to let the hot steam cook the fungus. I had not sliced the mushrooms, and the large whole caps looked excellent. I heated pasta sauce from The Olive Pit. I microwaved and then boiled three chicken thighs (bone and skin removed). Lastly, I salted and peppered the chicken and roasted it until it was done.

Pasta in salted water (I forgot to reserve a cup to add to the sauce) was next cooked (now that the mushrooms were put aside and a burner and pot were available). I steamed asparagus in a large pot with a metal strainer. Dinner was delicious. The kitchen looked like it had exploded.

Afterward, I did the dishes (I admit I returned for seconds; I had no lunch). I packed the leftovers in glass containers (thanks, Gene and Glenda, for those). I went back to writing my story and even read part of the story to Deborah (we tried to watch Matlock together, but our previous watch party setup did not work). Deborah, it was getting late, meaning we ended our Zoom meeting to sleep, and I started on the recipe for Focaccia. Doom soon followed.

I bought cucumbers, dill, and more garlic at the 185th Corner Market (the aforementioned veggie place). I heated vinegar, salt, and water until just boiling. I peeled a cucumber (wax on the skin) and sliced it to fit the pasta jar I had cleaned for this experiment. I was following Joshua Weissman: An Unapologetic Cookbook recipe for dill pickles. This is not canning, but simple frig pickles. I added dill, garlic, and peppercorns. I poured the hot liquid (there was some left over) into the jar and followed directions and when room tempature, but in the frig. I am hopeful.

I went outside and collected fresh rosemary in the rain. I did have to brush off a tiny slug that seemed to want the rosemary flowers. It is blooming.

I chopped garlic, used kitchen shears to cut the rosemary leaves into tiny bits, collected warm water, bread flour, salt, and yeast, and loaded the bread machine with all this goodness. I put it on the dough setting, and it started in. I did not notice how close the machine was to the edge of the counter, and I did not push it back to a safer location, which was a terrible omission.

I went back to writing. When I checked, the dough seemed heavy, but I was unconcerned. I continued to write.

There was a loud thud, followed a moment later by a loud crash, an explosion of glass, and an unseen electrical short. The ground fault protectors I put in the kitchen twenty-plus years ago prevented a test of how much power is needed to set off the electrical box breaker (see previous comments about fire extinguishers). The short was immediately shut off; I had to reset the plug.

The coffeemaker and glass pot were crushed on the floor. The electrical guts of the coffee maker were exposed. Thin glass was thrown across the floor and into the next room! I got the heavy metal dust pan from the garage. I made three passes with the broom until no more glass was shown. I carried the dust pan to the garbage outside each time, not wishing to risk it in a trash bag. I vacuumed the floor and carpet. I checked multiple times, and no glass is showing.

The coffeemaker joined the glass in the outside trash. I recovered the dough. But before I tossed it, I tested, and the bread machine restarted in the proper place (it is supposed to survive a short power failure and restart where it left off). But the would-be focaccia might be poisoned with glass, too, so I removed it, and it joined the rest of the items in the trash outside. My dreams of focaccia bread were unfulfilled.

A bit spooked, tired, and frustrated, I went to bed. I read Joshua Weissman: An Unapologetic Cookbook and decided I would not be stopped. I will finish my Focaccia and even some more items for this cookbook. With dreams of homemade ketchup, I turned off the light and slept until the morning.