I am Going to Put Their Weenies to Shame

I got the call. Will you bring beans to the cookout? My family is going to have a pot luck Memorial Day party. The meat course is hot dogs-cricket chirps. Apparently, wedding dress shopping is more important than, say, brisket.

Do I go to the store, buy a couple of cans of baked beans, and call it a day? NOOOO. I buy four cans of pork-n-beans and add BBQ sauce, molasses, spicy brown mustard, onions, garlic, balsamic vinegar, bacon, and about a pound of brown sugar. These beans are dessert.

The sour dough bread is rising on the counter. I fed the starter last night and left it out to make a sponge. The kitchen smells like yeast, yum. I have tried to teach someone how to make this bread. No one will learn, sad. The tricks are honey and kneading with a very soft hand. Grandpa M taught me how to knead bread when I was a little girl. He just couldn't stand by and watch me pound on the bread dough like it had done something bad.

Baby Monkey is home alone with me today. He had to come home from a sleepover last night because of an earache. Poor Baby Monkey, first a wasp sting and then an earache. He can't win. We are enjoying the day together. He found some ripe blackberries earlier and we are going to make cobbler.

Eat your heart out other sisters. I AM the cook.

Just so you know, the other sisters could care less about competitive cooking. All they care about is the bread. Well, eating the bread not making it.