Roll it Out!

"But do you think the dough will rise the same at altitude?" I asked Tiffany as we packed our bags to visit her sister in Denver for Christmas.

It was my 117th pizza-related question in two days.

"Oh my god," Tiffany said. "Please stop worrying about the pizza."

I couldn't help it. I had volunteered to make homemade pizzas for Tiffany's family--her mom, Patty; dad, Gary; cousin from Peru, Alessandra; and sister, Melody--on Christmas Eve. This was partly because I wanted to contribute something to the weekend and partly because the original Christmas Eve dinner--Gary had offered to make tofu stir fry (none of us are vegetarians)--had been booted from the menu.

"Okay," I said.

But I lied. As we waited to board the plane the next morning, I was still worrying. I feared I had bitten off more than I could chew--figuratively speaking. Literally speaking, I could eat homemade pizza every night of the week and never tire of it the way Tiffany was tiring of my questions. The problem was, I had only made homemade pizza dough once, the weekend before, after I volunteered to make the homemade pizzas in Denver and then found out Denver does not have a Trader Joe's, which is where Tiffany and I cheat and buy our pre-made dough.

"There are only six of us," I said. "My recipe will make about eight dough balls for eight-ish-inch pizzas. Do you think we should make all eight pizzas or freeze some dough for Melody or not make all the dough?"

This is a trick I pull when I'm trying to get in as many questions as I can--I bundle them into a long run-on question in hopes that Tiffany will answer one of them before she stops responding to me at all.

But she didn't even look up from her crossword puzzle.

So I fretted. That night, I was head pizza chef and Patty was sous. Tiffany was second sous/drinking beer with Gary. While Melody was at work, we mixed with our hands and kneaded with our fists. Short a rolling pin, we used the bottles of wine Gary had bought to roll out the dough. And, because I was terrified of not having enough to go around, we made all eight pizzas, baking them on baking sheets, broiler plates and the bottom sides of pans.

As the pizzas started to come out of the oven, crispy-crusted and golden-cheesed, I was feeling very fine. And then Tiffany and Gary came back from picking up Alessandra at the bus stop. She's living in Colorado for a few months while she interns at a ski resort. Guess where she's been assigned?

The kitchen.

Guess what she makes, five days a week, several hours a day?

Pizzas.

Ah, well. Some things cannot be foreseen and therefore cannot be worried about in advance.

Merry Christmas, indeed.