A bun in the oven

Apparently, the bread baker at WonderYeast or Roman Mold has talked with our respective parental units.

The units' desire - obsession is a better word choice - has become overt hints. They want granfreeloaders, and they want them now. You can see it their eyes when they visit. "What the hell's wrong with you two? You don't like sex? Don't know how to do it? Here's a gift certificate to the Spice Channel - it's channel 510 on your TV, we checked - study up kids, because we want some whelps to spoil by next year. Got it? Good!"

My mom said she's worried she'll be too old to enjoy grandfreeloaders. Wife's mom has bought baby toys and children's books. And yet the stork remains grounded, waiting for it's delivery orders. It will be a granny battle royal, too - "So, you got Melissa Jr. some pool toys? Oh, that's sweet. We thought about floaties, but instead went with the a new 250-horsepower Kawasaki jet ski, fully loaded, to toodle around the pool in. We don't want junior(ita) to slip on the stairs, this way he (or she) can pull right up to the edge for a fresh-squeezed juice box. Yeah, we hired a Ismelda here to squeeze the juice out of the cranberries we had shipped special from Wisconsin because little junior(ita) gets only the best from us. Next week we have the U.S. Olympic dive coach coming by to teach junior(ita) how to dive."

Now it appears, in their competitive lust for grandfreeloaders, these wannabes we call our Units have coerced our bread supplier into placing subliminal hints inside our loafs.

I was munching away on my specialty dish during lunch - a turkey and provolone cheese sandwich with spicy mustard - when I noticed a black blob imbedded into the crust of my wheat bread. Typically, I pass such a sight off as a hunk of mold and dutifully rip the offending area off, disposing it in the prison work camp issued receptacle. I realize the mold likely spread throughout the loaf of bread and it should be quarantined in a hyperbaric chamber before it decides to rally it's forces and invade our peaches and cheese. But this wasn't any typical blob of mold, oh no, this had juicy consistency and less fuzziness. In fact, on the fuzzy meter, this sucker was at a zero. I thought maybe our bread forwent the mold cycle and instead invited a tick to harvest its crusty bottom.

Afraid I just injested a family of vegetarian ticks that are on a whole wheat diet kick, I promptly hacked up my specialty into the prison work camp issued vomitorium (the receptacle) expecting to see little ticks setting up camp, pitching tents and roasting undigested bits of Aunt Hattie's finest bread over a tiny flame they built from my paper coffee cup using a paper clip and a pebble as a flint. After reexamining the plump blob, it dawned on me that my slice of wheat bread is an expectant mother. She was hatching a raisin (I found this out like any good 3-year-old would do, I popped it into my pie hole and gave it a taste).

As I see it, the whole wheat loaf we bought had been pimped out by the baker to a cinnamon-raisin loaf. If the bread machine is a rockin' don't bother knockin'. The end result, a juicy, half-ounce baby raisin.

My question is, are there racial lines humping breads follow? How does white bread feel about mating with poppy seed muffins? Will rye and sesame-seed buns get in on in the middle of baking? Is sourdough bread to surly to find a partner?

And the grannies went through all this trouble just to pass along a hint that maybe it's time some grandfreeloaders came about to crap on their favorite recliner and fingerpaint on the white cabinets? All they had to do was say, "Instead of coming here for dinner tonight, why don't you stay home and hump out some kiddies."