So just to recap, I made keto bread on Sunday and here is the rest of the story.
As I very impatiently waited for the bread to bake I thought of all the ways I would eat it once it was done. At a narrow margin of votes between butter and peanut butter, me being the only voter, butter won. As soon as the bread maker dinged that it was done, I rushed over to open it. Showtime! I looked inside and saw that it was funky shaped and gray in color. Odd but whatever. It was also super-hot but I didn’t care about that either. I yanked the pan out of the machine and tipped it over to get the loaf out. It was not budging, I think it was scared of me. Frankly, I was a little scared of me too. It was at that point that I began a one-on-one with the loaf of bread. I banged it on the counter and tried wedging it out with a knife. I tried tongs and a giant spoon. No go. Finally after a good ten minutes, like a raccoon, I ripped it out of the pan with my fingers. Cussing just a little, I slapped butter on it and sandwiched two pieces together with the melting butter in the middle. I blew the hairs that had slipped out of my bun during my fight with the pan off of my forehead and took a huge bite. I chewed for a few seconds and then stopped, trying to figure out if I liked it or not. I chewed some more and then a lot more. I chewed that first bite for a solid five minutes. Holy crap that bread was dense but it was too late now. I was all in and I was not admitting defeat. After a large glass of water I had finished my first taste of keto bread. It…was…horrible and I felt like I had a brick in my stomach that had tiny brick babies. I left the bread in the kitchen and decided that it was dead to me. By the time my Little found me, I was laying on the ground flailing around like a turtle that had flipped over. Her little face scrunched up to a confused look and asked why I was trying to make snow angels on the carpet. Not caring to hear my answer, she turned to leave the room and warned me not to eat the moldy bread on the counter.