My mother immediately branded me as a deluded happy homemaker, which apparently hurt her indie sensibilities. Keep in mind this is a woman who reared me with the constant refrain "If your father didn't want kids, we would still be living in Manhattan."
So this weekend I made bread. I started with a regular white loaf with regular white all-purpose flour because we didn't buy bread flour. We bought whole wheat flour, but you need wheat gluten something to make bread with it. The white bread isn't bad, but a little too crumbly and blah. I scored, however, with a olive-herb loaf. It tastes like bread should taste. The texture was much better, too.
In craft news, no one has bought from my etsy shop yet. I should not be that discouraged, as my marketing approach could use some work, but I am having a heard time wanting to get some other things up there if they will just languish as well.
I went on a cleaning spree not too long ago in an effort to refine my craft room. It worked remarkably well, I built shelves, so my things are no longer lining the walls, and I just came across a table I thought would be perfect for my sewing machine. Some one left it out with the trash. I dragged it home and used it as a bedside sick table all last week until my husband opened it and realized it was, indeed a sewing table. The top swings over to double the workspace and an arm comes out the side to hold it up. Unfortunately the vintage Singer that was originally attached to it was no longer there. My newer, plastic model won't sit in the cutout, but it is still one for happy coincidences.
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