by Kimberly Devine

Created on: March 15, 2009

The first time I tried to make homemade bread was the best day of my father's life.

One evening I decided to try making bread from scratch. The preparation time in the cookbook was listed as three hours. It was eight, so I figured I'd stay up and make bread that we could have with breakfast. They really should list separate prep times for beginners.

The dough itself came out magnificently. I floured and kneaded the dough. It rose... I punched it down... It rose. Everything went according to plan, except it took me five hours to prepare the dough to cook.

Now this particular recipe made enough dough for four loaves of bread. Loaves #1 and #2 got put in the oven at one in the morning. I woke up at 5 a.m. to my father howling and sobbing. I ran to the kitchen in fear, but his howls and sobs were issuing from a deep well of laughter.

My father never laughed in the morning. To top off his normal morning funk, a smoke-filled house should have caused the volunteer fireman in him some major panic. I must have slept through the yelling for his anger at my dangerous behavior was lost in the glee of mocking my tender efforts.

Now, I was proud of my efforts. I had never seen anyone make bread from scratch, and I had done it. Who cared if it had been petrified into bread-shaped briquettes? I didn't! Anyone could tell that the bread had risen and was perfectly shaped. In fact, I eventually found out that it remained perfectly shaped for years.

My father isn't one to forget a good burn.

The merciless teasing began after the charcoal cooled and my dad regained his breath. He pulled them out of their respective pans and played football through the house with our exchange student from Brazil. They even tossed around the old "bread skin" in the front yard for the enjoyment of passing motorists.

Ah, good times.

Desperate to save my reputation and get the praise I felt was my due, I baked up the second two loaves.

They were great!

My father must have thought so too. He ate three slices while he called all his friends to tell them about the new loaf decorations in our glassed display shelves.

While he was on the phone, I grabbed the loaves and threw them out.

I should have poured some spaghetti sauce on them. Dad pulled them back out and dusted them off.

He teased mercilessly for days before his interest waned and the loaves were gone. I thought my mother had intervened as, by this time, I was crying myself to sleep.

Little did I know that he just wanted to keep the humiliation fresh. A month

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