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The Clash of the Dutch and the Amish

By Belinda

Me and the Amish Bread ( I have dropped "friendship" from the name; read on and  you will see why) are in a standoff. Maybe even "standoff" is too gentle. I feel as though war has been declared. On me.

Did someone whisper to the bag on the countertop what I wrote about it earlier this week?

The bag in which Brenda brought her Amish "friend" home to Mom on Sunday was the medium sized Ziploc. I was so shocked to be "tagged" with a bag that at first I didn't think too much about the size. I wondered why two years ago (the last time I had an Attack of the Amish) I had used the large sized bags to keep my blobs of goop in. Maybe I had been wasteful using big bags, I thought.

On Wednesday night I had to add to the bag a cup each of flour, sugar and milk. I eyed the bag and thought, "Yep, she can take it." I opened it and poured in food for the "baby." It was a tight fit, but I could zip 'er back up. Just. I duly mushed the bag, as per the instructions.

"Not much room for growth," I thought. But here's the problem--I'm half Dutch--I'm not Amish. Dutch people I didn't fancy the mess of trying to squeeze the burgeoning bready contents of the medium Ziploc bag into a large one--and, why waste a perfectly good bag if not necessary?

On Thursday evening I came home from work and headed for the kitchen ready to cook dinner. The cell group would be arriving in an hour or so and every minute counts on those nights. There on the counter top was what looked like a miniature opaque football. The bag was inflated as tight and angry as the face of a two year old having a temper tantrum.

Not thinking, I opened the zipper. It hissed yeasty breath and spat goop in my face!

I tried hard to maintain my composure and reclose the zipper calmly. Then I wiped the specks of goop from my face and hair. Susan seemed to find this highly funny when I told her about it after cell group.

You would have thought that it might have occurred to one of us (okay, me) to do something other than merely reclose the bag. But no...

On Friday morning the alarm clock on Paul's side of the bed went off at quarter to five. Since he had fallen asleep on the couch the night before, I turned it off and rolled over. Two and a half hours later I woke up with a start! Yikes, I hadn't meant to sleep that long--I would have to hurry to get ready for work.

I ran downstairs and into the kitchen to put on the coffee. On the counter I noticed two things. One was a note from Brenda, who had already left for work. It said, "Hey There, I was wondering if you could feed and let out Molson when you get home. If not, could you call my cell and leave a msg? Thank you, Bren."

The note was right beside a puddle of goop. The bag had vomited over my counter top. "Did she not notice?" I thought, getting a mental image of Brenda casually propping the note beside the creeping toxic waste and leaving for work.

Now there was no doubt about it; a large sized bag it would have to be. And do you know how sticky that yeasty stuff is? Just what was needed when running late.

Darien Gee left a comment on Thursday's post. She has a Friendship Bread Kitchen page in case anyone would like to check it out. And, if you are inspired and envious, you know who to come to for a batch of starter. I will be very happy to share.

And if you are too shy to ask, I may chase you down the street, waving bags and instructions in the air, crying, "Really, this is really, really, good." And you know, it really, really is!

P.S. On Darien's website, I found a recipe for Amish Friendship Bread Pancakes. Perhaps the tide is turning!

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