Bread Dough, Bowls, and Blood Sugar

I like to think I'm invincible. True, my struggle to find a job set me back on my self-confidence for a while, but now that I'm working, it's been better. I also recently started baking and cooking again after a 2 year hiatus (being at FB wasn't conducive to working in the kitchen). And I've been loving it! I'm good at it and I like sampling my creations and having other people say they're good. Two silent pats on the back for me!

But it's humbling when you call your mom about 4 times during the course of the afternoon because you've never made bread before and how do you do it? And is it supposed to be this sticky? And how much are you supposed to knead it? And why isn't it rising? Finally, I had something that resembled bread dough in texture, color, smell, and taste. I set about cleaning up the huge mess I'd made (for some reason, baking is a full body experience for me. If a recipe has flour or brown sugar, you can pretty much count on finding it everywhere, including, but not limited too, the counter, the floor, the cupboards, my dress, my face, my hair, and my toes).

Now, unbeknownst to me, my blood sugar level had been silently dropping during this entire process, leaving me as it usually does - light-headed, slightly nauseous, weak, and shaky. I realized it while I was washing dishes, but figured I could wait to eat some protein and sit down in a minute or two when I had finished the chore. However, on one of the last dishes, a large mixing bowl belonging to Rebecca, this low blood sugar contributed to me losing my grip on the bowl and smashing it into about 5 pieces in the sink. I stared in shock for a moment and then noticed the blood oozing from my fingers. I grabbed a paper towel and tried to staunch the bleeding and made it to our first aid kit. I fumbled around until I found the BandAids, trying not to get blood on too many other "sterile" items. I checked the cuts. Not too deep, thank God. Wouldn't want to drive to the ER in my condition. I picked up the glass and took it out to the garbage can in a paper bag, and had one moment of detached panic in which I thought I might faint. Held really still, clutching the porch railing. Buzzing stopped, vision cleared, didn't fall down the stairs.

I have questions. I drop things. I bleed. My fingers are held together with BandAids. I don't know yet if the bread will survive my fumbling attempts.

I am not invincible. Too bad. It might have been nice.