OK, sorta. It was tortillas. But still. The making of bread is the holy grail, the archaic and arcane mystery that awaits me at the end of my kitchen learning curve. Baking actual bread intimidates the hell out of me. I compensate my making all the easy things that are bread-ish. I do banana bread, cake, "batter bread," corn bread, beer bread, and now I have made tortillas.
The cooking thing is an obsession lately, a manifestation of my attempt to become a Real Person. I am not a Real Person, according to my Bu's definition, because of many random things... Real People get up at a reasonable hour, they cook at home more than they eat out, they do not go commando because all their underwear is dirty.
A kitchen covered in flour is one more tiny little step toward the amazing transmutation into the imaginary productive, creative, me.