Day 14: Schticky Schtuff

Pizza Dough.
Sticky.
Gummy.
Smelly.
Yummy.

Making homemade pizza crust is like...hmm...is like...child birth? Parenting? It's a pain in the you-know-where, and yet, so rewarding. You don't really know what the heck you're doing until...well, I haven't gotten that far yet.

I have this recipe for pizza dough and it's truly a yummy recipe. My family's favorite. However, it calls for a soft dough (which in bread making terms means: sticky). You absolutely must have floured hands, fingers and counter space to deal manage touch roll make this dough. I have made this crust 5 times in my life and I still don't have the hang of it yet. I forget how it provokes me to anger and wrath and swearing "I'll never make this again!" (Say that loudly, like you did that day you had to clean up 8 red Kool-Aid spills on white carpet within 2 hours. Oh, that wasn't you? Sorry. I must be projecting).

I had already made the dough and it was in Bob (see photo: 200 degree oven and hot pot of water) waiting for it's golden moment. Mr. Friend, my sweetie pie, with a pleasant smile on his face, in his most helpful, sincere voice said, "Honey, don't worry about it, I'll make it". I snorted/laughed. I answered with an innocent, demure little voice, "O.K., are you sure?".

Mr. Friend didn't know the way of the pizza crust. He put 2 cups of flour on the counter top. He thought he could lightly flour his fingers and then pick up the dough ball. He touched it and it became like bubble gum in an irritable, strong-willed, can't-stand-still, I'll-do-it-myself toddler's hair (sorry, projecting again).

I heard schmack. Schplatt. Schitt! It was apparent Mr. Friend needed some anger management therapy (like me. Which is why I'm supposed to be making bread and not allowing someone else to do it for me). I laughed. I laughed some more. The tension in my life dissipated while Mr. Friend's tension started getting more intense. After he attempted to roll it out/toss it/stretch it/throw it/smash it/cuss it/schmack it, I offered to help. Mr. Friend, in a rather booming voice, said, "NO! Don't Do! Anything"! Me, being an obedient and helpful cohort:  floured my hands, floured counter space, floured the roller and picked up the other dough ball. I rolled it out quite effortlessly and picked it up and turned it like a wheel while walking it to the pan (it stretches itself if you use gravity like a friend). It flops onto the pan and I begin dressing the pizza. Mine makes it into the oven first. Man, was I lucky to have it look so easy. I was a pro pizza crust maker (poser )for just a moment.

Mr. Friend finally threw his dough into the air. High into the air. Almost-to-the-ceiling high in the air. The dough was launched and as it hurled towards the ceiling, it spread out into a large 13" circle and landed in Mr. Friend's floured fingers and was placed on the other pan to be dressed. It was awe inspiring. He too, became a pro pizza crust maker (poser) for just a moment.

And just like child birth or child rearing, you forget how difficult it was/is. (Well, you don't forget that it was /is difficult, you just forget how difficult) You don't really know what the heck you're doing; it's all about flying by the seat of your pants (which is why pizza parlors sometimes have as part of its name, "Home of the Flying Pizza"). At the end of the day, you sit down to eat and you find joy. And, next Friday, it's pizza night all over again.

If you want the recipe for the crust, here's the link:   http://www.caprialandjohnskitchen.com/recipes/print/2501.php