So, we recovered from three weeks of tonsillectomy/adenoidectomy hell. We made it through a week of diarrhea. Then there was the start of the 2-pack-a-day smoker’s hack that developed overnight. We topped it off with a week-ending 2nd degree burn.
Every week, I make a loaf of gluten-free bread in my bread machine. Saturday, I felt the texture of the flour mix as I was making a divot for the yeast. It felt more like cornstarch than the normal fluffy floury loveliness it usually represents. Alas, I cooked it anyway.
Two hours and fifty-five minutes later, the timer went off. My daughter was headed to bed. I pulled the cooking pan out of the bread machine and said, “Oh man. Something is wrong with our bread.” My daughter yelled, “What happened?” I said, “It didn’t rise.” She said, “I want to see.” I turned to put the potholders down and told her to hang on a second. When I turned around, her face told me the story. My heart sank.
She cried for an hour. I did everything I was told. Egg whites (which I believe was a miracle worker). Cool water. Cool compress. It was horrific. I gave her ibuprofen. She went to sleep. She slept all night long.
The next morning, she woke up in a fantastic mood. It was then I thought, “OH MY GOD. There really is something wrong with her!” She wasn’t herself. She is usually a nightmare in the morning. Tears. Clawing. Fit throwing.
She didn’t complain once about about her hands all day. She even climbed a rope on a rock climbing wall later that night. Whatever we did that took away the pain was so worth it. Or maybe this was just something that happened to her that she decided wouldn’t beat her.
Two days later, the blisters are gone. One little area peeled away. The morning after, the white patches on her fingertips had all but disappeared. A friend said to me, “You have to burn to learn.”
Isn’t that the freaking truth?