My Most Hormonal Day Ever or: I Made Monkey Bread

Some days I think I'm a really cool wife. Other days, no matter how many times I ask my dear husband, "I just want to be a cool wife. Am I a cool wife? Are you sure?", I let my hormones get the best of me and my emotions and I turn into Bren the Weird Wife.

This is nothing new to Ian. Once he survived my first dumb meltdown (was it over a baking disaster? A stubbed toe? A glass of spilled milk? I'll have to ask him...) several years ago and assured me that he still loved me and didn't think I was crazy, I knew that he would be a keeper. However, it wouldn't have been too far beyond me to sneak something into the vows about sticking together through PMS or non-PMS-related meltdowns. You know, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, especially during that time of the month...till death do us part.

So today, I was just feeling a little cranky for no particular reason. Which is typically solved by eating food that's terrible for me. After perusing the web for a Dutch Oven Cinnamon Bread-type of recipe, I decided that it would be a fabulous day to make monkey bread. After church, I trekked down the road to Giant to pick up some yeast and the sunshine lifted my spirits a bit.

I returned home and laid out all the ingredients on the counter as gunshots and loud noises emerged from Ian's new Playstation. I rambled to him about how I was still getting used to living with a boy after coming from a house where the TV was ruled by TLC and HGTV, not video games and football (I had a lot of coffee this morning). I had my computer perched on the counter with the Dutch Oven Monkey Bread recipe and ran to the bedroom to get the chord for it. I yanked the chord from the wall, but must of yanked a little too violently, because the next thing I knew the glass of water sitting on my nightstand was all over everything near it, including the floor, some books, and our framed engagement photos still sitting on the floor.

Like I said, too much coffee.

And that's where the floodgates burst. After yelling a few bad words, more coming each time I saw a new thing that was now soaked, I stormed out to grab a roll of paper towels. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to salvage the wet photos and wipe up the wet glass. Ian heard the ruckus and came in to help, while I wailed about ruining the beautiful photos he had framed for me, and cried some more about the fact that I was crying over spilled water.

In truth, nothing was really ruined. Ian gave the pictures a few quick blasts from the hair dryer, and laid them out to dry on the floor. Other than a few wet spots on the carpet, it turned out that the world wasn't actually ending.

I emerged from the bedroom to grab a handful of tissues to wipe up my very attractive snotty nose. When Ian followed behind me, he said (cautiously), "You alright?".

I fell into a hug and then the tears started all over again. This time, maybe because I was so happy he was my husband? Or that he saved our precious photos that could be printed again from Walmart from their soggy death?

As I burrowed my face into his shoulder, I said "I'm going to make something that's really bad for us."

"Awesome", he said.

"It has two sticks of butter in it."

"Go for it."

"I'm a weird wife."

"You're not a weird wife."

And then we moved on with life. And I made monkey bread. Not until after I realized halfway through that I hardly had any flour left in the cabinet (contrary to popular belief, once you move away from home there is no magic flour fairy that makes sure your staples are always stocked) and made yet another trek to Giant sans meltdown. And realized when I got home that I was wearing my grungiest, most see-through shirt I own. You're welcome, teenage boys of the Springfield Giant.

Several hours later, the most amazing combination of yeast, cinnamon, and butter I have ever laid my little mouth on popped out of the oven.

She might be weird, but she sure can bake. Sometimes.