Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. Still basking in the glow of last week’s delicious gnocchi success, yesterday’s foray into the art of making pizza dough fell a little short of expectations. And when you live in the tri-state area and are practically raised on New York-style pizza, a sub-par crust is cause for dinnertime mutiny. Fortunately, Boyfriend spared my life because the topping was kick-ass. It was a stuff underneath it all that was a little…questionable. Allow me to elaborate.
It’s my own damn fault, really. I was a little more cocky than I should’ve been, and chose to simply ignore the phrase “substitute up to one half of the all-purpose flour with whole wheat.” Hear that, yesterday’s self? “Up to one half.” Did I substitute up to one half, you ask? Nope. Play it safe on the first attempt at a new recipe? No way. I substituted the entire amount of flour. This wasn’t my first go-around with bread-making, but did I check to see if the yeast was dead before I used it? Nope. Did I put the dough somewhere especially warm to rise, and not just on my countertop while the A/C whirred quietly in the background? NOPE. So you see, friends, there was a really, really limited chance for success here. Really limited.
This is how my cute little ball of brown-flecked dough looked when I snuggly tucked it into its oiled bowl to rise. How did it look 2 1/2 hours later when the yeast had worked its magic, you ask?
I’ll give you a moment to scroll back up. Because it looked exactly the same. Devastating.
Nevertheless, refusing to admit defeat, I rolled that sucker out, laid it on a pizza stone, and demanded it become the vehicle through which Boyfriend and I could ingest a half a pound of Habenero Jack cheese and chorizo. Despite its refusal to rise and create any semblance of a crust, it was tasty. I mean, basically it was a glorified, whole-wheat flatbread that I stridently attempted to make as unhealthy as possible by cramming it with meat and cheese, but still – I ate half the “pizza” and thought it was pretty delicious, though pizza it was not.
I guess the true test came when I asked Boyfriend if he would like me to make it again. Knowing how easy it is to anger his already frustrated and perpetually short-tempered girlfriend, he said yes…but he preferred the ready-made Boboli crust we usually use. Damn it. Guess I can’t fool him into believing this was pizza.