We're having spaghetti with mushroom ragú for dinner tonight -- it simmered on the stove all afternoon and smelled so good, so savory and rich, that I wanted nothing more than to go into the kitchen and plunge my head into the bubbling pot. A desire to keep my face unburned and oregano flecks out of my hair restrained me.
In honor of the homemade sauce, I decided to make some homemade bread to go with it ("FINALLY!" the girls exclaimed, and my husband said, "I just can't eat that stuff from the plastic wrapper anymore.") It's been about a month and I've been relying on the inexpensive sliced French bread from the Kroger bakery. It's not terrible bread, actually, but it isn't homemade either. Which is kind of a damning-with-faint-praise sort of statement, I realize, but sometimes you just have to hit the easy button.
So here is my first photo of MY BREAD, a nice, hefty no-knead milk-and-butter boule with rosemary and sesame seeds on top. The girls and I couldn't resist the yeasty aroma that it was sending forth two hours before dinner, so we sneakily cut off a couple of corners; the taste of that bread with cold butter spread on it was incredibly delicious and we all sat on the couch watching House Hunters International.
I love Christmas break!
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