When life hands you hockey pucks, pour gravy on them.

By Veronica

Last week I tried to make bread. I used to bake my own bread quite often. I enjoyed the feeling of secret competence that came with kneading the dough: pressing the heel of my hand deeply into it, folding it over, pressing again, pounding out whatever frustrations I had. It was cathartic. I loved the feel of smooth dough, left to rise, full of promise. And everyone loves the smell of bread fresh from the oven.

I gave up making my own bread some time after my second baby was born. Bread is one of those foods that requires few ingredients, but lots of timing and technique. Babies do not allow for good timing. Whenever the dough needed to be punched down, the baby needed to be changed. Just as the bread was almost finished baking, the baby needed to be fed. After a number of scorched or fallen loaves, I gave it up.

For the last three years, we have not had even one homemade roll.

I tried again last week. I tried Pioneer Woman’s dinner rolls. I would like to tell you that it was a success, but that would be a lie. Between three children in diapers, one nursing baby, and my plain old forgetfulness, I overcooked every single roll. We ate them anyway, but it was definitely underwhelming.

But the worst culinary failure of the week was yesterday, when I made biscuits and gravy for breakfast. My girls love biscuits and gravy, that poor man’s delicacy. Sausage in a dairy gravy poured over homemade biscuits – it warms the body on a cold winter’s day, and fattens up skinny children.

I am usually pretty dependable about biscuits – they don’t need time to rise, so there is less time for me to forget about them while doing something else. But yesterday I confused two recipes and the result was biscuits that never rose at all, small, hard and round, hockey pucks of disappointment.

It turns out that even hockey pucks are edible if you put enough sausage gravy on them. My children ate them with gusto, and my husband charitably spent the whole meal telling the girls what a good cook I am. Even I managed to eat two helpings, once I choked back my pride.

So it turned out all right. The meal did not impress anyone, but our hunger was satisfied. That’s what I’ve learned about parenting: with an open mind and a little humility, even our mistakes can be put to good use. And it helps if you keep extra gravy on hand.

Veronica blogs, usually on a full stomach, at Toddled Dredge.