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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.

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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.

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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.

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