Things My Husband and I Argue About When Making Pizza

Last night, we decide to make gluten-free pizza, a little tradition that began in our house ever since we found pre-made gluten-free pizza crust at a nearby health food store.  Except that when Tony goes to pick some up, the store has run out.  Apparently a woman has started coming in in the mornings and buying up all the gluten-free pizza crusts, EVERY DAY.  I mean, honestly. 

"A pox on her family," I declare, when Tony calls to tell me this.  Then I add, "Just get some gluten-free pizza crust mix instead."

He returns home with his purchases.  Which turn out not to be gluten-free pizza crust mix, but All Purpose gluten-free flour. 

"The cashier told me this was for pizza," Tony says. 

Pox.

I look up a recipe on the internet, while Tony chops up the ingredients.  Halfway through my dough-making, I realize the recipe calls for yeast.  Which we don't have. 

"Do we really need yeast?"  I ask.

"YES," says Tony, who will stop at very little when pizza is involved.

I run to the corner store, buy yeast, return, and mix it into the recipe.  But something is wrong.  Very wrong. 

"The dough is really crumbly," Tony points out.

"I noticed," I say, gritting my teeth.

"Maybe it needs more water."

"You can't just ADD WATER for FUN.  It's a RECIPE.  You need to FOLLOW it."

"Did you follow it?"

I reread the recipe.  I reread it again.  I wonder if maybe, the person who posted this recipe is playing a massive hoax and has put in the wrong amount of flour just to fuck with people, like someone who lets off a fart bomb on crowded metro and then gets off the train.

I reread the recipe a third time.

"Oh," I say out loud, and immediately regret this.

"What?"

"It... um... I doubled the flour."

Tony's face freezes over.  He turns away, quickly, trying to hide this from me. 

"I'll just add more water," I say, casually, knowing that this night is headed for certain disaster.

I add more water.  The dough is still very, very crumbly.  I add more water.  Still drier than Ghandi's flip flops.

Then, out of nowhere, I am stirring oatmeal.

"It's pretty mushy," Tony says, helpfully.

I say nothing.

"You should add some flour."

"Go away."

Fortunately for him, he does.

I spread out the pizza dough, which is as easy as spreading putty mixed with Elmer's Glue.  The more I try, the more the combination of my low blood sugar and irritation build, and soon, I want to fling the dough across the room, tray and all, mostly because I know how much this will annoy my husband.  But I grew up in an Eastern European home, where you do not waste food, even if it came out of the garbage.  Instead, I say a little prayer and pop the dough into the oven for 5 minutes before putting the toppings on, hoping for a miracle, i.e. the extra water somehow getting sucked out of the dough and saving this evening. 

5 minutes later, I take it out.  It actually looks okay.

"I think it's going to work," I said, as Tony returns to the kitchen.

"Let me do the toppings," he says.  "Just in case."

I let him.  We cook the pizza.  We watch Family Guy YouTubes while we wait.  When it comes out, it tastes pretty good.

"It's a miracle," Tony says, his mouth full.  "A holy miracle, from above."

"Oh, for Godsakes," I say.  "Don't be so dramatic.