Wanted: a few good friends

It's a combination of The Blob and The Exploding Salsa.

At least, that's what I'm thinking every time I walk into the kitchen and see those bags filled with Amish Friendship bread dough and hot air, looking for somewhere to go.

Will they explode?

Lucky I have a white ceiling, cuz if they do, the collateral damage won't look nearly as bad as the big splotches of split-pea soup, which had just just launched an upward splat from Helen Crockett's pressure cooker one day years ago at the precise moment my mother had come visiting.

Helen was beside herself, tears rolling down her face, while most of her pea soup was above herself, dripping down on top of her from the ceiling.

Mother never forgot that day, which was one of many memorable episodes she spent with her dear friend, including the day I launched off into life at the Bonner County Hospital. Helen had accompanied my mother that night for the birth of Mother's third child.

Well, we could have a lot of bread birth around these digs if I don't find some friends, and scenes reminiscent of that famous '50s movie "The Blob" could start scaring the heck out of anyone coming into my house.

For all Blob novitiates, the movie was a scary thriller about a mass of red gelatin-like stuff that just kept growing as it swallowed everyone and everything in its path. That movie had a lifelong impact on me, and when I looked at the bowl of my apple jelly on Thanksgiving Day, scary blob nostalgia came rolling back.

Now, we're beyond the nostalgia and it's not even Hollywood produced. This substance is white soupy stuff in plastic bags, and in each bag, the stuff just keeps growing and threatening to blow up.

I need a little help from my friends, if I have any out there willing to save me from Friendship bread extinction.

Here's the scoop.

I've been writing about the Amish Friendship Bread lately, ever since Annie said she was bringing me a starter if her spot on the Seattle dough donation rotation was timed with her trip to Sandpoint. Upon first mention, my friend Cis warned me that things were gonna get interesting and that possibly people would go running the other way whenever they see me coming.

Well, I'm beginning to understand.

First, I must mention that this Amish Friendship dough is illegal booty. Annie was not supposed to carry any explosives in her carry-on stuff, so she hid it in her suitcase and checked it. The dough in the baggies rode from Seattle to Spokane in the belly of the plane. It was also considerate enough not to explode while hidden away with her socks and shirts.

So, there's a plus for any potential friend who wishes to be one of my beneficiaries: along with the friendship comes a good story of intrigue. Betcha can't tell tales like that about your loaves of Wonder Bread.

When we arrived home from the airport Tuesday night, Annie pulled out two baggies of dough and some instruction sheets. She said I'd have to wait until Saturday before baking my first loaves.

In between, there was the day to add flour, sugar and milk, and then there were the days for smooshing the dough aka fondling the bags. I liked the smooshing, but that first morning when I walked into the kitchen and saw two bags on the brink of exploding, I got scared.

I knew Annie wasn't going to get up from her snooze for a couple of hours to advise me, so like the day last fall when my salsa almost exploded from the quart jars and that same morning when I sneaked into my mother's house while she was still sleeping and rescued her from sure salsa death, I took my life in my hands---well, maybe I took the baggies in my hands and carefully opened them.

No noise, no dough---just air escaped from the bag. Big relief!

Long story short, I baked my bread yesterday. And, when you bake your bread with two bags of donated dough, you're left with two bags to keep for yourself and six bags of dough to give away to someone---someone who's your friend or maybe even just someone who looks like a good sucker who could be a temporary friend cuz they took a bag of your dough.

I'm about to bake my second batch of two loaves of bread. I've asked Annie if she wants to take any of her illegal booty back to Seattle today, and she said an emphatic "no."

So, I've got six bags of Amish Friendship bread to give away. Even if you hate me or if I hate you, we could reach a rapprochement for mutual benefit. You could take your bag, bake your bread and find yourself in the same fix I'm in this morning.

Of course, I've thought about another solution, but I worry about evil forces taking over my life if I should just break the chain and throw a few bags into the garbage when Annie's not looking. But when I think about that, I think about those labels on the pillows which remain there to bug us because of the Federal law prohibiting their removal. I've never yet pulled a label from a pillow for fear of death by feather blitz.

And, besides, if I do stuff a few bags in the garbage can, what's to say they won't eventually explode all over the place, and then I'd have a real mess. If I take it to the transfer station and hide it in the dumpsters, they may be bringing the hazardous chemical crew and, for sure, they'll be able to trace it back to me.

I really do have a dilemma, so won't you help me out. Besides, the bread is pretty tasty.

I have the bags. Give me a call, and I'll be happy to help you out with a baggie or two or three or four . . . . Otherwise, maybe I'll have to go down there to Wal-Mart and put 'em in a box with a sign on it like they do for all those puppies:

Free: Amish Friendship bread.

But then, again, maybe there'd be so much excitement to get my dough, I could get trampled and killed.

But, then again, that could solve my problem.

Any friends out there?