Growing up, Friday night was pizza and a movie night. It was a night we all looked forward to with breathless anticipation. Mom's homemade pizza was the best - followed closely by the rare "store bought" pizza. So, I decided as a proud homemaker and wife that I should learn to make a delicious pizza, because the way to a man's heart is, of course, through his stomach. My hopes were high. I would create a pizza worthy of my man's heart. I knew no ordinary peperoni pizza would do- no! I would aim for something so much above that. I would make a Hawaiian pizza. Canadian bacon and pineapple. Yummy!
All went well for awhile. I went to the store and purchased the necessary items. I had already called my mother for the recipe. So, I settled down to make my masterpiece pizza. Luke was on his way home from playing football, and I knew I had just enough time to create my delicious crust and pop it in the oven before my darling husband returned from his long, hard, cold day of contact sports.
Yeast, flour, oil, water, salt, sugar. Basic ingredients for basic dough. But here began my first problem. At the house where we are staying the flour is kept in a rolling drawer in a low cupboard where a blender and a collection of bowls. Whoever put those particular things together was not thinking about me. On my first attempt to get flour out and lightly dusted everything in the near vicinity and adding a huge dollop along the side just for good measure. Frustrated, I pulled everything out, cleaned up, and then returned to my great endeavors. I dropped everything in the bowl, even making sure that I poured in my dry ingredients in first so that my 1 cup measure wouldn't be wet when I tried to put the flour in. I thought I was masterfully complete. And then I mixed. I mixed and mixed and mixed. Looking down at the light concoction of dough in my bowl, I realized that something wasn't right. Something was wrong. It was too stringy. It wasn't cohesive. This didn't look like it would form perfect crust. It was much too dry.
My response was what every good housewife's would be. I added more water. If its too dry, it needs moisture, right? And so I gave it moisture. A lot. What I failed to remember was that a little bit of water goes a LONG way. I was soon faced with a goopy, sticky mess that resembled a dry, stringy mess that had been there moments before. As I stirred and squished the blob with my fingers it became even more apparent that this would definitely not be the perfect dough. And so I added flour. Realizing my previous mistake that a little goes a long way, I started with a little. The sticky mess stuck (as sticky things normally do) to my fingers. Peeling myself out of the goop, I groped for some more flour - that evil flour. My flour adding was to no avail. No matter how much flour I added, the sticky stuff remained sticky. More flour and more flour was added. In utter frustration and annoyance, I jammed it into the pan, trying to will it's sticky mass to cover the circumference and leave me free. However, the dough had other ideas. Resolutely it stuck and squirmed and refused to be shaped into anything resembling a pizza. The more I pushed it, the more it shrunk back towards me. At this point I realized I had to be smarter than the pizza dough - and so I called in the big guns! Yes, the rolling pin. If the dough doesn't behave, well then, I will make it behave. And so roll away I did. The dough remained firmly and stickily where it pleased, because my big guns were a little too big and kept running into the sides of the pan.
Completely at my wits end, I grabbed the whole mass in my hands. As I looked at the lump that was suppose to be beautiful, enticing pizza crust, my loving husband returned from his days ventures. Much like the unsuspecting John Brookes who brought his friend home to a house overrun with jelly, my poor, unsuspecting husband arrived full of good cheer, ready to see his loving, wonderful wife. What greeted him was not what he expected. Much like Meg, I stood in the middle of a disastrous kitchen, covered in flour, holding a desultory piece of dough.
"Hello, honey!!! How are you doing?" My darling husband asked. For a few minutes I tried to keep relatively calm and had a simple conversation, however; my husband, being perceptive asked me again if anything were wrong. With one long scream, I put all of my pent up emotions and exasperations at that tiny piece of stickiness. And my loving, unsuspecting husband just looked at me.
After my outburst and many explanations that I was fine, my loving husband left me to my dough baking.
I looked at my nemesis. It looked at me.
I was determined to master that blob.
And so I did what any good cook would do - and I grabbed as much flour as I possibly could, threw it on the counter and all over the dough, snatched the rolling pin up, and slammed that floury, sticky mess into floury submission.
Looking at the flour caked, squarish flat thing in front of my, I felt vague satisfaction. I had at least battled it into something of a shape - and it wasn't sticking to my rolling pin. Triumphantly, I raised my dear dough overhead. As I did so, I realized that I couldn't serve pizza on a dough that was hidden under a thick layer of flour. That would be unthinkable and too, too floury. But, as I had bested the dough, I wasn't going to let this small problem affect me at all. I simply looked at that dough and gave it a good, solid shaking. Flour flew everywhere. But I didn't care. It was off of the dough. Now only a thin caking remained. Satisfied, I finished wrangling that dough into shape, into the pizza dish. Even then, it still taunted me. Allowing me to roll it all the way out to the edge of the dish, I would move on to another corner, only to have the corner roll back, when my back as turned. But I finally smooshed it. Hurriedly, before the dough could think of any new ways to torment me, I layered toppings upon it and plunked it into the oven.
As I called my husband to dinner, he asked once again if I was alright. I explained to him about my plight with the dough and how incredibly difficult it had been. He is a wonderful understander and listener. And understood and listen to all my pizza woes. He is also a wonderful eater, and my husband adored my pizza, floury crust and all. It actually was pretty delicious if I do say so myself. And even more so because I knew I had beaten that dough. I had made it submit - and it submitted beautifully after 10 min. on 400 degrees.
So, my lesson learned, I enjoyed my pizza. What was the lesson you ask?
Lesson Two: A loving husband and good pizza will turn even the most horrible cooking experiences into a laugh and a feast.
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