I’m writing this new YA book about a sultan and decided on the spur of the moment yesterday, to do a little research and hands on experience. So I roped Carlos in (and being the newly wed hubby he said “of course dear, I’d be happy to help.")
Home-made pita bread! What fun, flour flying everywhere, the blind leading the blind, where each of us wanted to be the leader, yet neither totally prepared to take the fall.
Recipe in hand, accompanied by ample instructions and pictures, we set about deciphering the language of yeast, cooking stones and kneading versus punching. We were in hysterics. It was something like an episode of Laurel & Hardy, with Carlos reading the instructions and me doing the work (perhaps that’s where the mistake was?).
“Put on a surface and kee the dog for ten minutes or till you’re tired,” he reads.
“Kee the dog?” I'm laughing out of control and so is he, (but Laurel & Hardy didn't laugh, did they?)
“Yes! Yes, that’s what is says here.”
“Where are my damn glasses?” Under the flour, of course. “I still can’t see Carlos, where? Everything’s fuzzy.” Of course, flour all over my glasses as well.
“Here, it says dog,” flour on the recipe now, still can’t read.
“Dough! OK, that sounds like ‘doe’ as in “Doe, a Deer …” ah forget it, it doesn’t make sense, you don’t sing.” We laugh.
“Yes, yes, like I said, dog-h,” and he tacks on an 'h' to make be happy.
We alternately knead the dough, and push and punch the dog-h, but I tell you what … there was some really, really good pita bread as a result.
Carlos made a bowl of dipping oil with herbs in it … Mmmm. What a little feast, cup of tea anyone?