I know a girl who loves to bake bread. She says it makes her feel like she has accomplished something of value, even if she has done nothing else with her day. I finally get it.
For years I have been using my trusty breadmaker to pump out mediocre dough. And it suited me just fine. I have long-since learned that bread travels on a direct path from my mouth to my thighs, so who cares if my whole wheat roles don't make me giddy? But then, as appliances are want to do, my breadmaker broke. Black sludge began to seep out from it's guts onto my counter. R.I.P, to mediocrity. With it's passing dawned a new era: the era of The Kitchen-Aid Mixer.
It took weeks of breadlessness to finally looked my Mixer up and down with any real intent. I eyed it's wicked-looking dough hook with some trepidation, flipped through the manuel and finally went for it. . . Only to find that doom is upon me. Now that I have tasted the buttery crunch of my crusty Honey Oatmeal Bread, I expect to grow by one clothing size per week until no plus-sized store will be able to hold me.