It works both ways.

After a serious dough session, about 70% of the dough is a dark purple brown. I don't mind. I have given the warning as to the end result, and whether it is red or purple brown, it does belong to him. The smell always takes you back to the days of old. Or young. I had a great score at a garage sale years ago, so the dough tools..and molds..and cutters..and the press take over two small bins. Who am I to comment about the quantity of tools for making things?

Later that night I had to get some of my own. Dough that is. Although it is wrong to be looking for recipes and concocting pizza dough at 8pm at night, it does happen. It usually takes me longer to go through the process, as I like to ruminate about the options. Not this time.

I have been losing valuable time over at Smitten Kitchen. This is what made me very tired the next morning, but damn, it was good. Pizza Bianca. Essentially pizza dough with olive oil, fresh rosemary and coarse salt. The rosemary becomes this perfectly crisp little bit which is a bit tempered by the high heat baking. I gave a piece to G (The next day, not at 11pm. I do not throw that much caution to the wind.) and waited for him to balk at the rosemary. He proceeded to pick off all the pieces of rosemary and pop them in his mouth one by one until there was a naked piece of dough on the plate. That, people, is a moment that makes a mother proud. Right alongside his ability to identify basil at the farmer's market.