The first time I ever made dough it was a goopy sticky mess that ended up baking up like a brick. The anticipated soul satisfying experience eluded me that time, yet I was drawn to the process, due in part to the unique flour bin, under the counter like a secret compartment, in the pantry of our apartment. That pantry feature romanticized the art of bread making, and it was there I suffered that first attempt to make dough.
Nancy, Laurie, and I, all life-long friends rejoined after college and work in Alaska, scored a lengthy first floor Munjoy Hill apartment. Back then, we ate slabs of cheddar, sprouts, tomatoes, and avocado stuffed into pita pockets or we bought pizza. I was inspired to make my own dough, and with the flour bin and hardwood surface beckoning, I thought I would put aside my knitting and put my hands to another satisfying use, besides smoking. Besides, I felt a little bad knitting in front of Nancy. She was a serious knitter of intricate designs; her latest was a cardigan of hand dyed sheep’s wool with dancing ladies and men across the breast. Now our landlady, Dorothy Plummer, a spidery but sharp slip of a spinster, had one stipulation: propriety did not allow male overnight guests. It just so happened that the Scottish Rugby team was in town and Jack, our exuberant rugby playing friend, somehow or t’other herded the majority of the staggering team back up the hill one Sunday night, kilts and all filling our place from front to back. We had work the next morning, said goodbyes, and got into her red VW bug. Just as we were about to pull away, Jack, looking like an unmade bed, lumbered blearily out of the house, his sleeping bag unfurling with every step. He decided that walking down the hill to his car was not as appealing as it was the night before, so he agonizingly folded himself into the back. Nancy packed the same things in her Bean bag every single day: a can of Campbell’s soup and a baggie of Saltine’s, her knitting needles, work-in-progress, and small ball of purple heather yarn. She always placed the bag on the floor behind her seat. We were running late, and just after she cut ‘er hahd onto Congress Street, we heard a horrendous noise behind us — a cross between a sea walrus belching and a sudden torrent from a fire hose. I knew I’d be meeting her on the square to share my lunch.
Well, now we get to the epicurean part of the epic. Since those days, I went to the school of hard knocks and mastered dough making, so much so I had a bakery for thirteen years. I still whip up dough, and offer this simple recipe to make pizza. If you’re not into that, buy yourself a dough ball for a buck fifty from the grocery store, let it come to room temperature, shape it into an un-greased pan and top with whatever you have around, or create a flatbread to make sandwiches. A coat of fresh garlic infused olive oil over the dough, topped with mushrooms, Greek olives, fresh or smoked mozzarella, and pepperoni has phenomenal flavor.
Thin Crust Pizza Dough
2 Tablespoons oil
1 cup warm water
1 teaspoon yeast
2 cups flour
1 1/4 teaspoon salt
Sprinkle yeast over water in a medium sized bowl and add rest of ingredients. Stir together and add flour or water as needed. When the dough comes together, knead it until smooth. Alternatively, this can be handily made in a food processor by putting your dry ingredients in the bowl and streaming the yeast and water through the top.
The above formula will cover a sheet pan and can easily be doubled to make a thick crust.
Dough making tutorials and ingredients (flour and yeast) will be happily provided for the rest of this month by contacting me at [email protected]