Last night marked a special occasion. I spent more than 2 hours in the kitchen. Yesterday was also the first time I've ever bought bread flour; and yeast for that matter. In my mind, I have always painted a portrait of waiting for dough to rise as the culinary equivalent to watching paint dry. I was standing over the saran wrapped bowl watching the dough that I created mature into the final product of itself. Eventually I began to notice tiny air holes coming through, as if the dough was trying to gently tell me I fucked up.
I call home. I am rewarded and relieved that the air holes just mean the dough is breathing. This means I did something right! I pour a glass of wine to celebrate. This bottle of wine was also used to roll the dough flat, as I don't own a rolling pin. My mother told me it would take maybe 20 minutes for the dough to rise. It was closer to an hour, perhaps a little longer. But once it was finally ready to turn into four mini-pizzas, I realized how much fun I had waiting for the dough to rise to this special occasion. It was infinitely more rewarding than waiting for some guy to call which, let's face it, takes longer than paint needs to dry.
(insert obvious joke here about men and how the dough has to rise up to its potential in order to satisfy the baker's needs.)
And this is how my pizza turned out. I made four.
Albums of the week: Nirvana Unplugged
Roxy Music Avalon