This morning I started some bread dough. We weren’t out of bread, and I can’t really chew because I had dental surgery Thursday (while waiting for the novacaine to kick in, my surgeon told me stories of planting rice in South Korea when he was a kid), but I wanted the comfort of baking.
While I was starting the bread, using a recipe from Richard Miscovich’s From the Wood Fired Oven, I decided to start some pizza dough, too. I used sourdough, and whole wheat Farmer Ground Flour, and some Red Fife flour I got in Canada a couple of weeks ago. Pizza is always good on a Sunday, because there are leftovers for lunches.
After breakfast (pancakes of course), Felix declared he wanted to cook outdoors. Initially I rejected the idea, but I didn’t have a reason other than chores that seemed more important. Plus, I did have some dough he could use for pita. So I bargained for outdoor baking with getting him to commit to helping clean up indoors.
We both had a great time with the food and the fire. The pitas puffed up irregularly, and when they ballooned, we squealed in delight, like we were watching fireworks. Although I’d begun baking as therapy this morning, how it ended, squatting at a fire and feeding sticks into a hole cut in the hill, watching flour glow orange as the heavily dusted rounds of dough heated in the pan, was better than my original plan.
We ate in the yard, dipping the bread in dal, and a cucumber yogurt sauce. Coming inside with extra bread, Felix said, “I feel so satisfied.” Indeed.