When I was thirteen years old we moved from our German village of Katzenbach into military housing on Ramstein Air Base. The dollar had fallen precipitously against the Deutschmark and our rent had doubled over night.
My grandmother, widowed for a few years and getting up into what I thought was older-than-dust-ville, had never been to Europe, so she came to live with us for a few months. This was all fine and dandy. G-ma was a funny old thing: she used to call "Wyatt Earp"--an ancient western we got on the one English-speaking TV channel available over there--"Wild Burp." Hi-la-rious to a thirteen year-old. But Gram had a few funky quirks; one of which involved cooking.
One of the great things that happened when my mom's mom moved in is my brother and I had snacks waiting for us after school. This hadn't happened since we were really little. Awe-some! Grandma was the Snack-inator! And she was good at it too. At least at first.
On Monday she made this amazing bread. Don't even know what was in it, but it was delicious. We raved. She beamed. Tuesday she made it again. FABU, Grandma! We spread it with butter, jam, peanut butter. Yum-city.
Then on Wednesday the bread took an interesting turn. There were raisins in it. And some sort of grainy thing. Ohhh-kay. Still good. Thursday, there seemed to be more grainy stuff, and it was a bit damp. Plus I think there might have been some leftover corn in there. I swear I saw yellow specks. Um, ew. By Friday it wasn't bread so much as glop, with, I promise, some sawdust stirred in. We had to eat it in a bowl. With a spoon. I asked what it was and she was offended. "Bread! Don't you know what bread is? You've been eating it all week!"
So. Grandma had a good thing going. Then she went all Goldilocks on it and wasn't satisfied until the bread attained that je ne sais quoi-ness. Except it never did. It never got to "just right." She had us at Monday. Should have left it that way.
I think the key might be this: If other people like it, leave it. If you feel yourself hacking at it, leave it. If you're in a hole with it, leave it. If you feel the giddy urge to go all experimental, back away from the bread, honey.
Give it some time to rest. Then revisit it with fresh dual orbs of sight, allowing your native passion to run like the wind, bullseye, and elevate you to supplementary eminence.
(You may use that last sentence. After I revise it some more.)