I remember back in the seventies I decided to make a pizza from scratch. I thought that if I made my own dough I had arrived as a cook. Well, suffice it to say that it was a brick when it was finished and we had to order in.
Fast forward to the eighties when I had kids and felt all good moms should make dough. A friend of mine at school lived out in the country and she made dough for homemade bread every Saturday morning. We took the kids out there to visit once and she even had a little loaf for each of them to take home.
Dough is not easy. The recipes always tell you how long to knead it and it seems like it would take forever and it did and my dough was always too stiff. It was edible but not that great. I really wanted to learn how to make the cinnamon rolls my grandma was famous for and I just didn't have much success.
I have finally gotten the hang of it. My pizza dough is famous(at least at my old school and with my kids). I realized I wasn't using enough yeast in the cinnamon rolls and I found a dinner roll recipe that is wonderful. I even figured out the kneading thing.
So this past week in preparation for Easter I made all kinds of dough. I made cinnamon rolls, cookie dough and dinner rolls. My whole kitchen was covered with a white mist of flour for a couple of days. No sense in cleaning it up until I was completely done. I even baked off a crescent roll dough(straight from the dairy case..I'm not that ambitious) for one of the appetizers.
I don't know why making dough feels like such an accomplishment but it does. I guess because not many people I know do it. It always makes me feel like I am giving out the love, you know?
Dough seems like something so simple and yet it is complicated. Kinda like life.