The turDunkin' is a turkey brined in Dunkin' Donuts coolattas, stuffed with munchkins and served with coffee gravy and mashed hash browns. The turDunkin' should not be confused with the hot meaty mess that is a turducken, which is a turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken. TurDunkin' Recipe The first step is to brine the turkey overnight. We used 4 cups kosher salt, 1.75 gallons of water, 3 bay leaves, 3 cinnamon sticks, 1 32-oz Dunkin' … Read More

via Unwholesome Foods

“I’ve been listening to the radio all day waiting to win some back stage passes, and nothing!” Kaitlyn said.

Kaitlyn’s favorite band du jour was opening up for mega-band Aerosmith in 3 days. Even though Kaitlyn had tickets to the concert (and could care less about Aerosmith) she wanted badly to meet the opening act: Skid row. The band had some popular success all on their own, opening for a big name like Aerosmith would surely help them gain new fans.

Kaitlyn, Heather, and I shared a table at Denny’s.  Soon, Jason joined us as he slid into the booth. We all had low wage jobs, Kaitlyn, Heather, and I worked for Domino’s Pizza and Jason worked as contract event security and for the occasional celebrity.

Did I mention that Kaitlyn was totally infatuated with the lead singer of Skid Row? Sebastian Bach was handsome in his own skinny, vampire-y way, but to Kaitlyn his voice cinched the deal and she just had to meet him.

We ordered some late night junk food and talked over our day while sipping the weakest coffee in town. Since all four of us worked evening hours, it seemed Denny’s was the place to gather after work. We were too young to go to bars and couldn’t entertain at home because we either lived with our parents or had roommates that worked during the day. The conversation kept coming back to ideas on how to get Kaitlyn some back stage passes.

“Did you try calling up radio DJ’s and offering a blow job in exchange for backstage passes?” Jason asked. Kaitlyn just glared at him.

Eventually, she admitted, “Yes. But it isn’t like I was going to go through with it.”

“Maybe you could find a scalper.” Heather offered.

“I don’t have any money, so it doesn’t matter if I can find some passes for sale.” Kaitlyn continued in a sarcastic tone, “Hell, I might just show up in my delivery uniform and say I have a pizza delivery for the band and see if I could get backstage that way.”

“You know…” Jason said, “Oh never mind.”

“What!?” We asked in unison.

Jason slowly shook his head and said, “Oh, I was just thinking that bands do sometimes order pizza delivery or other kinds of things to be brought to them on location. It wouldn’t be that weird for you to show up with your uniform, car sign, and a pizza and claim you have a delivery for the band.”

“Are you shitting me?” Kaitlyn said, “Because I’m starting to lose hope of ever getting backstage, and I don’t want you to get my hopes up if you’re just messing with my head.”

“No, seriously.” Jason said, “I’d let you back stage and I’ve worked that detail before.”

“Eeeeeeeee!” Kaitlyn screeched as she hugged Jason across the table. Everyone moved/ grabbed drinks aside to avoid a spill.

“You are the best!” Kaitlyn said to Jason giving him one more squeeze.

“You never heard that from me. I could lose my job for this, you know.” Jason said, “But, yeah I think you could get backstage that way.”

The next three days we all had to listen to Kaitlyn rehash the plan to get back stage. She made arrangements with her boss to get the car topper and pizza. She read every rock magazine featuring Skid Row that she could find. She wanted to meet Sebastian Bach more than she wanted anything else. Kaitlyn wanted it so bad she could taste it.

Jason and Kaitlyn sat down with a map of the Portland Memorial Coliseum and he showed her which entrance she needed to use, and where to put her car so that the security guard would see her right away.  He told her what to say and what not to say, wished her luck and off she went to go meet Sebastian “Mr. Dreamy” Bach.

Kaitlyn looked just like she came from the set of a Domino’s commercial. She was covered head to foot in red, white, and blue polyester. She even had on a matching windbreaker jacket, and the lighted sign that sat atop her car was probably the spiffiest thing about the vehicle.

Let’s just say that Kaitlyn drove a very reliable car, but it was ugly as sin. She had been an accident four years ago, and only fixed whatever it took to get the car back on the road again. The grill was missing, the headlights were bare and car was covered in dents and rust. It looked a little bit like a partially decomposed corpse of a car, with headlights filling in for eyes, the flesh shrunk away from the skull.

As Kaitlyn pulled to the backstage entrance, she saw that the skank delegation had already arrived and was milling about as close to the entrance as possible. The women (girls?) were hardly wearing anything, and what they were wearing clung to every curve and fold of their bodies. All stiletto heels and heaving cleavage, the girls would have done better to skip the complicated hair-dos. It was February, and although Portland, Oregon has a fairly mild climate, it was still cold. And the rain was drizzling, causing hairdo’s to frizz or to flatten much to the owners’ chagrin.

She looked at those girls waiting in the rain for the privilege to fuck a famous person. If they were anywhere else, one would assume that they were hookers. But these girls didn’t even have the excuse of being there in an attempt to earn a living. They were waiting to become a one-night-stand for famous men who already had way overblown egos, and no desire to have an emotional relationship with any woman, much less one that waits in the rain in her underwear for the chance to have sex with a celebrity.

She parked her car and stepped out while the guard walked toward her. The guard asked if he could help her.

“I have a pizza delivery for the band.” She said.

“Which band is that?” The guard asked.

“Um,” Kaitlyn opened the bag and pretended to read the name on the pizza box. “Skid Row.”

“I’ll take it back for you.” He answered.

“Okay, that’ll be $22 plus my tip.” She said. Her heart was racing and it took everything in her to stay calm. She was almost convinced that it wasn’t going to work. She stayed totally still and waited for the security guard to make the next move.

“Well, crap. Okay, follow me.” The guard said and led her to the backstage door.

They wound their way through a maze of corridors. The floors and walls were made of cold, gray concrete. Their footsteps echoed back at them as they walked along the corridor. Kaitlyn got the feeling of being in a bomb shelter, encased in many feet of concrete. They could hear the light strumming of guitars coming from a room nearby. After what was only a 30 or 40 second walk, but felt like hours to Kaitlyn, they arrived at the band’s dressing room.

The guard poked his head through the open door as he knocked on the doorframe.

“Anyone here order a pizza?” He said.

Kaitlyn walked passed the guard and opened the pizza bag, removing the pizzas with little packets of cheese and hot peppers sliding into her hands as she laid out the meal. She even thought to pack up some paper plates and napkins, and placed those on a table in the middle of the room.

“One large Extravaganzza and one large Meatzza pizza.” Kaitlyn said.

“Who ordered pizza?” The Drummer asked.

‘Not me’ was the chorus that echoed around the room. Kaitlyn stayed calm and kept her back to the security guard. She made small slashing motions with her hands while alternately pointing at herself. But no one was paying attention.

Then the guard said, “No one ordered the pizza?”

“Ok!” Kaitlyn said, “I paid for the pizza. I wanted to bring it to you and hoped I could get your autographs.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” the guard said, “Get out of here! I can’t believe you made me look so bad.”

“No man, it’s cool!” Sebastian Bach said, “Besides, we were just talking about what we were going to do about dinner. This is perfect. You can have a slice, if you want.” He offered to the guard.

“No, thanks.” The guard grumbled as he turned toward Kaitlyn, “You totally convinced me, I had no idea you were a groupie.”

“What’s your name?” Sebastian asked.

“Kaitlyn.”

“Thanks for dinner, that was really sweet of you. Would you like to hear a song before you go? We’re kinda used to playing for our supper.” He said.

She looked back at the guard. “Yes, but just one song and then she’s your problem, not mine anymore.” He said.

“How could I say no? I really wanted to meet you, you’re my favorite band.” Kaitlyn was in heaven as they tuned up their acoustic guitars.

They played “I Remember You” for Kaitlyn. She knew all the words and mouthed along with the band as she listened with her eyes closed. She opened her eyes as Sebastian sang out the last notes. Tears were streaming down her face as the tune dropped away.

“Oh thank you so much!” Kaitlyn said. “I won’t keep you from your dinner, this is just about the best thing that has ever happened to me.” She was beaming.

“So you really, for real came here just to meet us?” Sebastian asked. “My agent didn’t put you up to this?”

“Oh no! Never. I really did want to meet you.” Kaitlyn said.

The musicians exchanged glances with each other as if it was just hitting them how famous they had become. This pretty, middle-class girl connived her way back to their dressing room for the chance to meet them. They knew that they had arrived, or rather crossed a threshold between mediocrity and actual fame.

“Hey! Don’t you want our autographs?” Sebastian asked.

“Oh, yeah!” Kaitlyn had nearly forgotten her opening request. She pulled a black marker out of her pocket and asked them to sign her pizza bag. She knew that it was going to cost $50 to replace the bag, but for her, those memories were priceless.

“You coming to the show tonight?” Sebastian asked.

“Yep!” Kaitlyn said, “I’ve had the tickets since the day they went on sale.”

“Here,” Sebastian said, “Have a concert tee shirt.” He then held up a shirt in front of Kaitlyn, and gathered it to place over her head. She ducked into the shirt as he pulled it down around her hips, and gave her a quick peck on the forehead.

“Thanks again for the pizza.” Sebastian said. “I’ll think of you as ‘Pizza Girl’, you know, like a superhero. That’s cool what you did today. Stay sweet.” He quickly kissed her on the cheek and she turned to leave with her autographed pizza bag.

“I know you’ll kick ass tonight. Thanks so much for making great music!” Kaitlyn said as she left with the guard. The security guard just kept shaking his head and mumbling that he was going to get fired for this.

As they exited out the backstage door, the half naked groupies had moved closer to the back door and seemed to have added a few more girls to their number. Kaitlyn couldn’t resist showing off her t-shirt and autographed pizza bag.

“A few brains and brass balls is all you need, ladies, to meet the band!” She hollered to the gaggle of girls. They responded with a few “Fuck You’s” and a couple of raised middle fingers, but the crowd was calm, if disappointed.

As she drove away in her zombie car, she too lifted her middle finger to the groupies. She knew even then, that she would never, ever forget the day that she met Skid Row.

We finally sold our big, fancy house late last year. That house was like a damn albatross around our lives. It was a short sale and took FOREVER to go through, but finally (finally!) we are free of that house.

We unloaded a great deal of our possessions in several garage sales and several trips to Goodwill and eventually to the city landfill. If it didn’t fit in the apartment, it didn’t come with us.

Initially, I was bummed at what I perceived as a step down on the socio-economic ladder. I was so wrong! I feel richer and freer now that we are settled. I am free of never ending housekeeping duties. About the time I got all my chores done in the old place, it was time to start over. I must have spent 20 hours a week just in housekeeping duties. The place was nearly 2000 square feet, with tall vaulted ceilings, three bathrooms, acres of tiled floors and countertops, and a three-car garage that never really managed to get organized. And that was just the indoor tasks that required that level of upkeep.

Just watering my yard every summer took several hours a day of maintenance. We didn’t have luxuries that one would expect in a house that size, such as automatic in ground sprinkler system or a robot vacuum cleaner.  We didn’t earn enough to afford a cleaning service or landscaping maintenance people. We were trying to do it all ourselves while also trying to work full time jobs. It was oppressive!

Now we live in an apartment. It is pretty awesome, with a single car attached garage and a tiny backyard about the size of the living room in my previous home. I spend about 30 minutes a day in house keeping activities. My power bill is smaller and my free time is abundant. I’ve been doing things like reading books, taking walks, baking bread, spending time with my family, and exercising. This is great!

In mere moments I am able to sweep and mop my kitchen. Vacuuming takes 20 minutes a week. Cleaning the whole kitchen, including the stove and fridge takes less than an hour. Yard work? Forget about it! There are grounds keepers that take care of the landscaping in the complex. As for that backyard, it is bark dust with a small concrete patio and a tree. There is a place for the barbecue, a couple of lounge chairs and table and a covered area in case of rain. In Oregon there is a lot of rain, so the cover is much appreciated.

I can never imagine myself returning to a large house ever again. Maybe if I wanted to start a commune I would seek a large home. I have a feeling that my husband would put the kibosh on any commune style living arrangements (he’s a spoil-sport!).

Although I am still in the apartment-honeymoon stage of my domicile relationship, I’m feeling so much better than when we were in that McMansion (ok, I know 2000 square feet is hardly a McMansion, but it was close enough).

Once again, conventional wisdom has failed to offer any kind meaningful insight as to how one should go about pursuing happiness. I’m glad that I had the home ownership experience. It was valuable in many ways to my life. But I’m done with that path, if not forever, at least for now. The lease at our current apartment complex is up in April, when we plan to move to Portland. We’ll stay there for a while, or as long as it suits us. We have talked about buying a big ol’ motorhome and traipsing around the country as the whim strikes us. That’s more my style. Maybe we’ll turn into snowbirds. Or beach bums. Or ski bums. Whatever.

Just so you know a little background info about me, I have worked just about every menial job imaginable. I’ve been the checkout girl at a grocery store, I’ve delivered disgusting, inedible pizza, sold Amway, waited tables, cleaned houses, even pole danced. So it should come as no surprise that someone attempted to rob me at one of my menial jobs.

This time I was working for a local pizza restaurant in 1988. It was a minimum wage job, but the work was fun and not too hard. The employees got along really well and would often stay after closing playing video games and socialize in the restaurant.

When I got hired for the job, I had recently torn my ACL on my left leg and was in a full leg cast. It was a walking cast, and I did a pretty good job of hiding the cast under my clothes during the job interview. It was one of those fiberglass casts, so it wasn’t as bulky as a plaster cast would have been. Since I was able to wear my jeans over the cast, only someone who was either keenly observant or was already aware of the cast would have noticed it. I got the job, and nothing was mentioned about my condition, ever. As a matter of fact, when it was time for the cast to come off and I needed to make sure I had the day off to go to the doctor, the manager had no idea what I was talking about until I showed her the cast.

I hadn’t been working at the restaurant for long, maybe three weeks, when two homeless men came in at almost closing time. The restaurant was almost empty with only one table of customers left in the whole place. The restaurant was kind of “U” shaped, with the service portion on one leg of the “U” and the dinning area on the other side. Unless the customers in back walked around to the front they never would have seen the homeless men.

The men approached the counter, and I asked for their order. One man was tall with long gray hair and in serious need of a shave. He was wearing army surplus clothes and carrying one of those old fashioned duffle bags like you would see in World War 2 movies. His friend was younger and looked more like a wannabe punk rocker without the fashion budget or imagination. The old guy approached the counter holding a knife. It was unsheathed and had a blade that was probably 8” long. It had a carved handle that resembled ivory, but it was probably plastic. He gripped the handle in his fist and pounded it on the counter.

“Gimme a beer,” He said.

I asked, “What kind would you like?” I was one hundred percent business. Just because the guy was homeless, didn’t mean he doesn’t get to buy himself a beer. Besides, I had worked at the McDonald’s down the street and would see homeless people in there all the time buying cheap food and coffee. I wasn’t shocked at his presence or the fact that he was carrying a knife. I saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Apparently my question caught him off guard.

“What kind you got?” he asked. I listed off the types of beer and the available sizes and prices.

He pounded the knife handle on the counter again and said, “Gimme a pitcher of Miller.”

“Ok,” I said, “That’ll be $5.25 plus tax.”

He just stood there and stared at me for what was probably fifteen seconds, but felt like all night.

I repeated myself, “That’ll be $5.25 plus tax for a total of $5.61.”

His friend leaned over and said, “Let’s just go.”

The old man looked back at me and said, “You’re going to bring me that beer, and I’m not going to pay for it.” Punctuating his words with another pound on the counter, like a judge issuing a verdict.

“I can’t give you any beer if you don’t pay for it.” I said and gave him my best you-must-think-I’m-stupid face.

One of the customers from the back room had walked past the counter to use the restroom, and shot me a really strange look. The old guy looked at the customer as he hustled into the bathroom.

He looked back at me and said, “I have a knife, and you are going to get me that beer now.”

“Ha ha!” I stepped away from the counter and overly-pronounced my limp toward the pizza cutting station. I picked up the pizza knife that was easily 20” in length and looked more like a sword that Sinbad the Sailor would carry than a kitchen utensil.

“I, too, have a knife. And I’d say mine is much bigger than yours.” I said with a smile, “The beer is $5.61. Take it or leave it.”

“I’m outta here.” The young punker-wannabe said as he left. The old guy picked up his duffle and mumbled something about fighting for his country in ‘Nam and started to leave too.

He didn’t get far, because the police had come in the back door, and another officer had been waiting outside the front door. The customer who shot me the strange look had called for the police instead of using the restroom. The presence of the cops confused me for a bit.

“Miss, please just wait in the back room.” One of the officers told me. I went into the office where the manager and another employee were waiting. There was a pass-thru window where we could see what was happening. The men were calm and the cops were just talking to them at that point.

“What the hell do you think you were doing?” My manager hissed at me.

“What? Those guys didn’t have any money. Besides, I’m not old enough to serve beer. What did you expect me to do?”

“You don’t thwart a robber by threatening him with the pizza knife!” The manager yelled back at me. She was furious and red faced and obviously shaken. “You just give him whatever he asks for!”

“Robber? Those guys were jerks, but they weren’t robbers.” I replied.

My coworkers just stared at me, gape mouthed and blinking for a moment. Then the manager spoke to me in over annunciated syllables.

“They demanded you get them beer by threatening you with a knife. You do know the meaning of the words armed robbery, right?” She said.

I glared at her for a moment, thinking that she was being a wise ass trying to take advantage of the youngster.

“Are you messing with me?” I asked, “Because at no time did I feel like they were trying to rob me. I think you are over reacting.”

She didn’t get a chance to answer before one of the cops ducked his head into the office and said he needed to talk to us.

Yep, it was for sure an attempted robbery, and I was so naïve that I didn’t even recognize it when it was happening. The sight of a knife didn’t in the least bit freak me out because I knew lots of men carried them. My dad even carried a bowie knife most of the time. As I gave my statement to the officer, I even reiterated that I didn’t think they were trying to rob me, just looking for a handout.

The officer chastised me for being heroic (I wasn’t!) then the manager did the same (I still wasn’t!). Strangely, the owner seemed to have a soft spot for me after that. Maybe it is because he thought I was slightly retarded or something.

Unsurprisingly, only the manager was asked to testify, even though I was the one who dealt with the men. Either I was very smart, and knew that they men didn’t have it in them to make good on a threat against a teenaged girl in a full leg cast. Or, more likely, I was really stupid and since they didn’t utter the words “this is a robbery” I didn’t get what was happening until it was all over. Even then I still wasn’t sure.

The moral of the story is that if you want to rob someone, you should probably explain the situation as clearly as possible. Otherwise, the very people you are trying to rob will make your robbery attempt more difficult.

Could you communicate only through Twitter, Facebook and video chatting with your friends and loved ones for 30 days? One Portland, Ore., woman is in the process of finding out. Cristin Norine has embarked on a 30-day Public Isolation Project to learn how technology walls people off even while connecting them. Norine, who is living in a small storefront art gallery, in complete public view, will only communicate via technological-based forms of c … Read More

via Newspaper to New Media

Ok, so those times when you only saw one set of footprints in the sand, that may have been when God was carrying you…to the loony bin.

And for an awful lot of people, when God closes a door, he opens a window…off the 27^th floor to the concrete parking lot below.

These are nice platitudes, but in the real world people go insane due to life being insane. Sometimes we need a drink or a drug to cope. Sometimes we need to escape to a quiet place for a few weeks to regain sanity.

And sometimes we just go bat-shit crazy and go on a killing spree. Or run naked through a busy parking lot. Or start yelling at cars at the intersection. I once saw a man carrying on an intense conversation with his wristwatch.

Those folks didn’t start life insane. They started life really normal. Who has ever heard of an insane infant or toddler? Apparently God gave them too much for them to handle, and they lost their minds.

Personally I prefer quotes that are more realistic and offer excellent advice for coping, such as:

If you’re going through hell, keep going. –Winston Churchill

Alcohol is the anesthesia by which we endure the surgery of life. –George Bernard Shaw

We have normality. I repeat, we have normality. Anything you still can’t cope with is therefore your own problem. –Douglas Adams

Although our house finally sold, and we are moved completely into our new address, we still have a long way to go before we are out of financial chaos. The debt load we are carrying is still enormous (think larger than a house payment every month, kind of huge). So I’m planning my Christmas strategy now, to get the most out of my time and money.

While packing and moving I found several boxes of Christmas cards, so I needn’t buy any of those. I also found packing and shipping boxes that were stored in the back of a closet. I’ve gathered all my gift-wrap and ribbons into a single location, and there seems to be plenty to get us through this holiday season. Realistically, I used to spend $150-200 a year on those items every year, so this is like money I can put in my pocket.

Next I start looking through my cupboards to see what I have on hand to make Christmas treats. Lots of flour for cookies, I note that I’ll need some more blackstrap molasses for gingerbread cookies (because it just ain’t Christmas without gingerbread cookies!). Marshmallows, check. Semi sweet morsels, check. Vanilla extract, check. Confectioners sugar, check. Hell, my teeth hurt just making this list and checking it twice.

One of the really awesome things about our new home is that the kitchen is fan-freaking-tastic! Granite countertops are perfect for rolling out dough, the fridge is huge, with lots of freezer space, and it is designed for actual use, not just a place to store your take-out containers as most apartment kitchens appear to be.

If you happen to be on my gift list this year, I suggest booking a couple of extra days at the gym, because you’ll think you can say no thanks to the goodies coming your way. But you’ll be wrong.

http://www.joyofbaking.com/NanaimoBars.html

China–> US: No, but we are happy to make joyful products from rare earth minerals and sell that to you, deal?

US–> China:  Hmmm, well then, why don’t you revalue your currency and then we can sell you our cars?

China–> US: No, we like having cheap stuff that the world wants, we keep currency at same price for a while. American cars are no good. Why not sell us your money?

US–> China: You already have too much of our money. Americans need work, Chinese need cars. Seems like a fair deal, doesn’t it?

China–> US: We’ll make you a loan so you can buy beautiful products from China, deal?

US–> China: Ok, but we are going to print a bunch of money, devaluing our currency and thereby the value of your loans to us, so the world will want to buy our stuff instead.

China–> US: Fuck off!

US–> China: We owe you billions and billions in loans. Play ball or you won’t get your money back.

Chinaà US: I hate you! Fucking Yankee Assholes!

USà China: We aren’t too fond of you commie scum either. Just sayin’

I also scrubbed the new apartment before moving a single box into the unit. It was pretty much clean, but I found dirt that the janitorial staff had missed. Also, the maintenance people had used the bathroom in the course of their work, and the need to sterilize the toilets and sinks and tubs and floors was overwhelming. I wanted to remove any trace of strangers from my new space prior to populating the space with my belongings and my spirit.

I don’t think men feel this way about their homes. They have a completely practical view on housing. It is shelter. It is a place to sleep and store their stuff and to watch tv. A little dirt never hurt anyone. It’s perfect if there is food in the fridge and a soft place to sit and watch the game on Sundays.

Women, on the other hand see the home as an extension of their own bodies. Just like women give a lot of thought about how to wear their hair, and if these shoes go with this skirt, the home is an extension of her person. She hides away the parts she’d like to keep private, like wearing a one piece swimsuit to conceal that lower back tattoo she got while in college, she stashes the items of personal vulnerability away in her home. We all have those items, the ones we treasure but would be mortified to be caught in possession of. Maybe it is something as simple as the unmarried woman who owns a wedding gown, or the childless woman with baby clothing. Maybe it is something as embarrassing as a porn collection or a box of sex toys. But those things are there. And we are confronted with them when we must remove all of our belongings from one domicile to another.

So today I complete the task of removing all traces of myself from the previous home. This is only half the battle. I must again confront myself on the most intimate level as I unpack and make the new home my own.

Up next? Gluten free diets. It’ll take no time at all before big food manufacturers are mass producing “gluten free” foods, and restaurants will have a special little symbol on their menus to indicate gluten free fare. What I really wonder is how much healthier eating these mass-produced, processed, gluten-free items will be? What will replace the gluten and will that substitute be any healthier than eating the old fashioned way?

Celiac disease and gluten allergies are a serious problem for those who suffer from them. However, the vast majority of people don’t suffer from these conditions. Celiac disease is not any more common than peanut allergies or bee sting allergies. If you feel better by cutting out products made from gluten containing ingredients, it could be that you were eating junk food in the first place such as industrially produced white bread, commercial breakfast cereals, commercial pastas, and any convenience/prepared items.

There are a lot of healthy nutrients such as b complex vitamins, foliate, and fiber in organic whole grains. It is a shame to eliminate such an abundant food source in the name of a diet fad.

Most likely the cause of all the gluten intolerance that Americans are experiencing has more to do with the way our food is produced, not that our bodies aren’t designed for eating grain type products. If gluten were really the source of our ailments, then why has this only recently shown up as a medical condition in the last 20 years or so while humans have been consuming wheat, barley, rye and oats for ten thousand years or more?

One would need to look at other environmental factors such as chemical fertilizers and pesticides used in industrial grain production, the processing of the grains before being turned into pre-packaged foods, as well as the combination of other ingredients that could cause negative reactions on the molecular level (such as processed oils like corn, safflower and canola. Don’t even get me started on HFCS or other chemical flavor enhancers).

It is a little known fact that lactobacillus, a beneficial bacteria, is missing in most industrially produced bread products. It is part of the fermentation process of the flour and yeast, breaking down the proteins and amino acids into a digestible form for humans. The main place the lactobacillus is found is on human skin. So, in the old days, when mom would bake bread, kneading it with her bare hands, she was not just getting a good workout, her hands were actually a necessary process of the culturing of the bread through the yeast and lactobacillus.

Just like those that are lactose intolerant can usually consume yogurt or kefir without any problems, the same may be true of those who eat home baked breads.

I can’t ignore the fact that home made bread, made from organic ingredients, can not only be delicious and nutritious, but also economically sound as well. A loaf of good quality bread at your local grocery store will cost you anywhere from $2-6 a loaf. That’s a loaf that doesn’t contain junk like trans fats and high fructose corn syrup. It likely isn’t made of organic grain, but it can be made from whole grains. $2-6 a loaf seem like a bargain for a healthy food? It isn’t. I make bread at home for about 0.90 cents a loaf. I use organic flour and have 100% control over the salt and fat content. I use only good fats like olive oil or grapeseed oil when making my bread, and can control the sugar content to some degree as well (sugar is needed in order for the yeast to work).

The jury is still out on this topic, and I think it will prove in the end to be just another diet craze like the low fat 80′s and low carb 90′s. In the meantime, I’ll keep baking bread at home. No bread machine needed.