Sourdough Dreams, Smoke Alarm Nightmares
The dough looked innocent—bubbly, hopeful, a promise of crusty perfection. But as the oven timer blinked, a smoky betrayal crept from the cracks. The crust? Charred armor. The crumb? Gummy, dense, a tragic doughy heart. My kitchen filled with the scent of burnt ambition and the shrill wail of the smoke alarm, echoing my own silent scream.
I hacked through the loaf, butter melting in defiance, hoping for redemption. Each bite: a crunch of regret, a chew of stubborn hope. Still, I saved the middle—slathered with honey, it almost tasted like victory. Almost.
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