Sisters and Brothers of the Internet,
I am not a pretender when it comes to cooking. I fully admit my shortcomings and my failures, and I’m often humbled before those that can cook a tender pot roast. Hallelujah! Each night, before I fall asleep, I double bless the great cooks that grace my life and offer me their hands in faith as I learn to sauté carrots. Amen!
I walk the righteous cooking path, seldom straying beyond bacon, enchiladas, chicken breasts, and chocolate chip cookies, No sir, I am not swayed by Coq au vin or homemade angel food cake recipes. I know and accept that I am destined to live my life with pasta that will never be al dente. Praise be to the pasta cooks!
However, this past weekend I was led into temptation by an Internet recipe for ice cream bread. I was swayed by how easy the recipe looked (only two key ingredients) and the pictures of golden brown bread. I was led to the grocery story by the recipe, where I bought the suggested cartons of the finest Chunky Monkey, Rocky Road, and strawberry ice cream. Before starting the cooking process, I allowed the ice cream to melt naturally and then slowly mixed in the name-brand self-rising flour. Pure of heart, I poured the bread into tenderly prepared loaf pans and put them in the oven, one by one, with absolute faith. Hallelujah!
At the chime of the oven timer, I opened the oven and was engulfed in the glory of golden brown loafs of ice cream bread. The bread had risen. I was a true believer. As I waited for the bread to cool, I looked forward to singing its praise on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter. Pride, my friends, comes before downfall. Amen!
The bread cooled, and I reverently sliced a piece of Chunky Monkey ice cream bread. Joyfully, I brought the forkful to my mouth and was instantly assaulted by the taste of rotten bananas smothered in chocolate. My ravished taste buds immediately screamed, “Spit it out!”
My faith slipped a notch as I eyed the Rocky Road bread. However, God is merciful and the prodigal son (who will eat anything) came home hungry. Faithful to anything chocolate, he plunged a generous fork full of bread into his mouth; immediately his eyes rolled back into his head, and a gagging sound came out of his mouth as he savagely spat the bread in the sink. He looked at me accusingly but accepted my astonishment that something made with chocolate, marshmallows, and nuts could be that beastly.
Filled with more brimstone than faith, I picked up the knife and sliced the loaf of strawberry ice cream bread. Perhaps I was blessed with persistence, because it was just awful and not tongue-clawing bad. Praise the Lord!
Sisters and Brother, let my story serve as a reminder to the Internet faithful that ice cream cannot be made into our daily bread. Let it lead you away from the temptation to make your own pistachio ice cream bread, and, with all my heart, I hope it delivers you to your favorite carton of ice cream and a spoon. Amen.