Instead of my usual holiday cookie list, I said this year I’d tell a story about holiday baking. It’s a bit late in the coming, but come it has. This happened about 6 years ago. Before I began to blog. Wow. A long time ago.
That year in a library school class a fellow student brought in a loaf of pumpkin bread. Awesome, awesome punkin’ bread. She posted the recipe to her school Web site and I’ve been making it ever since. It’s flavorful, moist, and, best of all, the recipe makes 3 loaves, which is perfect for the holidays with all the parties and get-togethers you have to go to.
So, six years ago I’ve got the day off of work so I can do my holiday baking. It usually takes about three full days of baking to get everything done. I have brownie batter in a pan on the oven, chocolate chip cookies cooling on the porch, lemon bars coming to room temperature in the fridge, and pumpkin bread in the oven. Then, disaster strikes. I realize I am out of a key, nay, a fundamental baking ingredient. I’m out of chocolate chips.
We’ve got a grocery store less than a mile away and I go tearing out of the house in an old T-shirt, an apron, and no coat. It’s a Mission. My hair is piled on top of my head, out of the way, in a less-than-appealing mess designed for function and the fact that I hadn’t planned on anyone seeing me that day. The apron is a disaster with powdered sugar and batter and smears of peanut butter. And there’s an alarm shrieking in my head: I HAVE PUMPKIN BREAD IN THE OVEN.
The speed limit on the street right outside my neighborhood is 35 and it slows, just in the block where the grocery store is, to 30. On the corner is a church parking lot that’s a favorite of police officers. Sure enough, on this freezing cold day, there’s a squad car just awaitin’ for me as I tear down the road at better than 50. His lights go on, my taillights go on, I pull over. The car hasn’t even had a chance to warm up so now I’m really regretting the decision not to put on a coat for the Mission.
The officer runs my plates and then saunters over to the driver’s side to ask for my ID.
“Ma’am, the speed limit here slows from 35 to 30,” he tells me.
“I have pumpkin bread in the oven,” I tell him. He looks at me a little more carefully, sees the apron.
“Yes, ma’am, it’s only 30 through here.”
“Can you write the ticket quickly officer? I need chocolate chips.” I point to the grocery store. I’m polite but firm.
I can see him thinking. He’s thinking it’s important that I was speeding. I’m thinking I’ve already been pulled over. It is entirely too late for me. AND I HAVE PUMPKIN BREAD IN THE OVEN.
He returns to his car and then returns to mine. By that time I finally have a little heat. He has written the ticket for some speeding amount under 50 mph, which I appreciate.
I made it home, with my chocolate chips and my ticket, before the timer went off. Punkin’ bread saved. And I still make it every year.
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