Back in the days when "bread machine" referred to a person who could crank out multiple loaves of bread, my kids didn't appreciate my cutting edge baking methods. They just knew they had round sandwiches and their classmates didn't.
I had discovered a great recipe for oatmeal bread. Once the dough was made, it went into two 1# coffee cans with the lids snapped on tight. When the rising dough pushed the lids off, it was time to bake. It was really good, really easy, and unfortunately for my kids, really different.
Last week, a box arrived in the mail. When I opened it, there was a loaf of Hobo Bread and a short note - "To Mom, Hobo! Love, (#1 Son)" I laughed because it was round bread.
I wasn't quite sure why he decided to send it to me until I read the label. (The habit of reading labels is what made me start baking my own bread in the first place. sigh.) That's when I understood.
Baked in a can. Me and the hobos... we just knew how to get things done.
Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith. Proverbs 15:17