Friday, August 22, 2008
Tonight is pizza night. Homemade pizza. This is the lull, the gentle rocking of the ship, the twenty-four hours between night and day shift. I am in a daze, tired, sleep deprived. But we are committed to eating at home and pizza will hit the spot. Prosciutto, roasted garlic, sundried tomatoes and leafy greens - fancy homemade pizza with homemade dough. The dough is easy: yeast, flour, sugar, salt and water - all thrown together in the stand mixer. But the part I love the best is working the dough before it goes off to nap, to rise. Ring off and shirt covered in flour I massage the consecration; stress falling from my shoulders to leaven neonatal crust. I feel useful, old-fashioned, redeemed. It’s as if homemade dough will erase my transgressions. I will be pardoned for working nights. For missing dinners and bedtimes. For not being home to enforce the rules, to instill order. For being exhausted. I am a good mother because I make pizza. Through dough I will be forgiven.