When I massaged the "friendship bread," as directed, before going into the office this morning, it exploded. I hadn't left it open, the Ziploc had just unzipped itself and started oozing out the top. Very blob-like. It's a real ziploc, with a real sliding tab -- not one of those stoopid yellow-and-blue-make-green seals -- it's just broken.
So I picked up that bag and stuffed it inside another Ziploc, which was all I really had time to do. I didn't even get to eat breakfast this morning, because first I had to do the massage, and then I had to clean up the post-massage mess. I don't know if it's still alive or not, but I would probably characterize its condition as "guarded" at best.
Even Jan, one of my very few baking friends, agrees, "It's not FRIENDship Bread...it's BURDENship Bread. Plus, it seems like there's a massive risk for food poisoning. I want no part of it." I hadn't even given that much thought, but she's right. Why would someone leave a big oozing ball of Dairy and Sugar on the counter for ten days? Doesn't that just sound like a recipe for death?
I thought about that, but are they designated "safe places?" Or as Michael put it, "are there no-kill bakeries?"
We finally concluded it might just be best to abandon the whole mess to his husband, Chef Tom, who would probably turn it into pasta.
All I know is, I plan to give my mother a very detailed play-by-play of this project just in case she ever dares to complain about thirteen hours of labor ever again. I'd better get it in soon, because we'll probably all be dead in our beds from Tha Ptomaine by Christmas night.