Anyone who knows me knows that I am domestically challenged. You generally don’t want me in the kitchen. Mary Jane teases me about the cookies I make for our expat women’s fellowship, as in that’s all I’ll make. I’ve been struggling with pizza dough here; it took me several weeks to forge a friendship with the yeast, and it’s a tenuous relationship at best. I made pizza dough this afternoon, and set it in its usual place to rise, next to the refrigerator, with a hot kettle next to it for encouragement.
When I got the dough to roll it out, oh my heck. Ants. ALL over my dough. I have no idea what happened; I’ve done this forever. My friend Rosie used to blithely say that “we live among the insects,” but I’ve never shared her good humor on that front.
So I did what any good Christian would do; I baptized them into oblivion with the hot water from the kettle. Then I took the sopping mound of dough, added a bunch of flour... and rolled out the best pizza dough EVER. Oh, the irony!