Marble(d) Dough

A couple of days ago, I spoke of finding a prize in my cake.

Turns out similar things have happened to others as well . . .

Husby comes from a large family. Five boys.

One girl.

The boys were . . . eaters.

Need I say more?

Fortunately, their mother was a fabulous cook and well capable of producing the large quantities of food needed with amazing regularity.

She was most famous for her bread. Something that had to emerge from her fragrant kitchen eight loaves at a time at least twice a week.

And she did it ‘Old School’.

Mixing the ingredients with a cakespoon in a large, ceramic bowl until the dough was too stiff, then dropping said spoon and kneading with the hands.

I know you know what I’m talking about.

The entire process fascinated her boys. And they were often close observers.

Just not for the reasons you might think . . .

Now, I probably don’t have to tell you that young boys are composed primarily (85% or so) of mischief.

With a goodly dose of ‘clever-little-monkey’.

And that those same boys have toys.

So: Boys-mischief-cleverness and toys. See where I’m going with this?

Keeping careful watch on their beloved parent’s actions, they would wait for just the right moment and, when she turned away for something or other they would . . .

. . . drop a marble into the bread dough.

Which was then kneaded in along with the deliciousness.

At which point they would run away.

Giggling maniacally.

Hey. I’m telling the story. I’ll tell it how I want.

Their mother knew, when she heard the laughter and the footsteps that ‘something’ had happened.

And, knowing her boys, had a pretty good idea of what.

She would search for whatever had just been dropped into her dough.

Occasionally, she would find it.

More often, not.

On those days, she would sigh and mold and bake and pray.

And just FYI, no teeth were broken in the making of this story.

It’s a good thing.

Like this. Only baked...