On a whim this afternoon driving home, I stopped at the Indian market near my house to grab some yeast, dead set on making myself a beautiful pizza for dinner.
Unfortunately, I dove fists-first into my [rather satisfying] doughy kneadings without taking a moment to read over the full recipe. I'm 40 minutes into the first hour and a half long segment of rising, or resting, or whatever bakers refer to this as. Just as it'll be time to divide, pummel, and re-wrap for dough-yoga session two (only an hour that round), I have to be dashing out the door for my riding lesson.
This is why I am a poor chef.
No pizza for me today.
Fortunately, my Love is kind and willing to clean up after me. If everything freezes ok, we might at least get to have consolation prize pizza for tomorrow's dinner.