It started with good intentions. The airy store bought pizza dough that would become grilled pizza on a Sunday evening. A cookie sheet was loaded with a bowl of olive oil, cheese, a jar of sauce with spoon to spread it and tongs to flip the dough when ready. I was set. My dough, however, was not.
I let it rise, kneaded it and tried to stretch it. Stretch, snap, stretch, tear, repeat, repeat, repeat. As my frustration had grown from gentle kneads to punches–and the potential for being arrested for assault and battery of an innocent mound of dough–my husband could hear my frustration from his seat in the living room. I was covered in flour as was the counter top and almost everything on it. I was about to throw the dough in the garbage and call for takeout.
That’s when he rescued me.
My husband, who usually leaves the cooking duties to me, rolled up his sleeves and asked me to step aside. I have to say, watching him knead, stretch, flour and oil that dough was so attractive to me. I stepped back and watched his patience take over. Something I lack, but he always seems to balance out.
Our pizza did not turn out so attractive. It stuck to our once pristine cooking stone and the amount of oil added to the dough to allow it to stretch caused it to goop and not look too edible. Surprisingly though, it was. Frustrations soon turned into satisfied appetites and laughter. That was the evening I was saved from a pizza and asked to never buy that dough again.