*Update* – It’s fixed.
Well, the weekend started off great. My husband took the day off, and we made the short trek over to the State Fair on Friday. The weather was absolutely gorgeous, and we had a wonderful time as a family. I’ve joked since then that if you ask my 2-year-old daughter what we did at the fair, she’ll tell you that “we saw trucks.” Not animals, not the ferris wheel, not the carousel. Trucks. And cars. She and my husband had a ball spending close to 45 minutes running around the auto show trying out different vehicles. I had to tear them away to go see the animals before we headed home. That evening we hosted a baby shower for some dear friends of ours in our Community Group.
The next day consisted of running errands and preparing for a Southern Living party I was hosting that evening. About forty-five minutes before the party was to start, I popped the baguette I made into a 450 degree oven. Following the directions, I sprayed down the inside of the oven with some water to create the steam needed to cook the bread. This being my first time making a baguette from scratch, I made sure to follow the directions explicitly (normally I see recipes as “guidelines.”) The recipe instructed me to spray water two more times during the first five minutes of cooking. (Yea, you see where this is headed, don’t you?). As I closed the oven door after the second spray, I heard the sound of glass. Cracking. To my horror, I then saw little tendrils spread out, popping and hissing across the inside pane of my oven door. I didn’t dare open the door yet because I fully intended to finish cooking that baguette (if it was the last thing my oven would do!) for the final fifteen minutes it required.
When the timer went off, I carefully opened the door and pulled the giant breadstick of doom out. I wasn’t quite sure what to do next, but I knew I couldn’t leave the door open. My friend Melissa, who had arrived early to help the consultant set up, assisted me in oh-so-carefully closing the door. Distressed because I had two dips left to cook, I called my neighbor. No answer. I called my close friend Angela who lives around the corner, and thankfully, she let me use her half-working oven. Ugh!
The rest of the party went off without a hitch. The highlight, of course, was when we sat listening to the presentation, and the oven, having finally completely cooled, gave one last hurrah as a large chunk of glass broke free and fell into the door.
You can be sure I won’t be baking baguettes any time soon. . . or anything else, for that matter.
Photo: My poor oven (2007)