"If You Can't Stand the Heat..."

 It seemed like such a good idea to use up some bananas that were getting too ripe. Howard heard  me say I was going to make banana pudding, and he suggested I make banana-nut bread while I was at it. Well, okay, I finally got the pudding finished after picking up pudding mix at the store. My recipe called for whipped topping, but I hadn't gotten any of that, so I made meringue, separating the whites and beating them.  I guess the egg yolks would be good for the banana bread, I thought.  I had plenty of vanilla wafers on hand for the pudding, so the dessert came out to our satisfaction.  (I can't be sure, but I noticed my husband had been sampling it eagerly.

By this time, I was a little tired to make banana bread from scratch, and it occurred to me I could use some of my baking mix. I seemed to remember doing that once before, but there was a recipe on he back of that particular box, and there wasn't one on this one.  Oh well, how hard could it be?  I wanted it to turn out like my favorite recipe, "Banana Bread with Oatmeal," from a 30-year-old church cookbook that was now held together by rubber bands. I sorted through the out-of-order loose pages for the contribution of our then-60-year-old youth leader, a successful business woman who loved kids.

I'd already started mixing things together, but something seemed amiss, so I thought I'd better check her recipe.  Hm-m. It called for two 1/2 cups of flour, and I only had two cups of baking mix.  I wondered if that would matter.  I was reminded to soak the oatmeal in buttermilk, (made by adding vinegar to milk) and to use soda.  The batter seemed a little thin, but I put it in the oven.  Checking the loaf awhile later, I reached in and touched the surface to feel it kind of deflate. When it was done, it had an ominous hollow down the middle.  Flipped out of the pan and turned upside down, though, it wasn't even noticeable.  I wonder what Howard will say when he sees the loaf is hollow?

Next he asked me to make soup for supper out of remains of a baked chicken from a few days ago.  It had made a nice meal then, and we'd already had sandwiches from it, plus I had served slices of it in the gravy over rice for another meal. (Around here, we say chicken is the gift that keeps on giving.)  I had seen him nibbling on the foil-wrapped carcass several times, so I didn't think there was anything left on it.  But now it is boiling away with carrots, peas, and miniature bow-tie pasta from 1/2 a box left from an earlier soup.  

I'm beginning to think frugality is not all it's cracked up to be, and that restaurant meals are worth every penny.  I'm exhausted from cleaning up messes, washing utensils and having iffy outcomes. I know how Martha must have felt when she asked Jesus to make her sister help.  If he told Martha to get out of the kitchen, that's good enough for me!