Never, ever, trust a television chef.
To be precise: Never trust a television chef who tells you there’s a quick and easy way to make pizza dough right on the counter, without a bowl.
To be even more precise: F*ck Jamie Oliver.
At home with two boys, the youngest in the process of potty training, I deluded myself into thinking I could do three things at once: expertly mix up pizza dough, keep an eye on the diaper-less terror, and retain my sanity.
Had I perhaps consulted a different recipe—one written by a person living in the real world—this may have, indeed, been possible. As it was, I landed on Jamie Oliver’s seemingly quick and oh-so-easy pizza dough recipe, which eschewed a bowl and, instead, encouraged me to simply pile up the dry ingredients on the counter, dig out a little well, and then pour in the wet ingredients into that well.
I even found a video in which Jamie demonstrated how, using a fork, you could gently swirl the flour into the yeasty warm water and create a ball of perfect dough that you could kneed on the spot.
Well, I don’t know what kind of shit Jamie is smoking, but in my world, here’s what happened:
- Mountain of flour placed on counter—check.
- Well dug out in middle of flour mountain—yup.
- Yeasty water poured into flour mountain well—gotcha…WAIT NO!
- Yeasty sludge breaches its banks, and the levee breaks.
- Sludge creeps rapidly across countertop, and begins dripping down along the edge of the kitchen drawers and onto floor.
- Toddler, going commando in a pair of overalls and standing alongside me, begins grunting—the universal sound of a number two also breaching its bank.
At this stage, I faced my own Sophie’s Choice: save the dough, or save the overalls.
With the rivulet of what was essentially papier maché glue threatening to take out my kitchen, and the turd having already passed the point of no return, I jumped into action.
I yelled “STOP POOPING!” at my son (because, yeah, that’s totally possible) and, inwardly screaming “I HATE YOU JAMIE!!!” I launched myself at the sticky goo rapidly encasing everything in its vicinity.
When I came up for air, my hands and arms looked like they belonged to a bog person’s. But I had pizza dough. And a pair of shit-encased overalls to deal with.
So, yeah. F*ck Jamie Oliver.
BATSHIT PARENTING 