I know that you all have been reading lately of my husband’s love affair. While some women have to deal with the advances of other women, I have to compete with dough these days. No, not the green kind, but the white, puffy texture. You know the kind that feels really soft sometimes, and the kind where it’s okay to poke, and pinch (an inch or more). This lady won’t talk back to my husband, or yell at him for calling it fat. She’s a considerable foe.
His latest Effin Artist creation: croissants with all their flaky, perfectly buttery tasting goodness. It took awhile, the process that is. Maybe even days from the first utter of the word from his mouth. Daily, I asked, when will the croissants be done? Just finished the dough…the dough needs to rise…the dough needs to be spanked, and worked up in my hands real good…(are you sure you are talking about dough here?!) The dough needs to rest.
The “dough” seems like an awful lot of work. The “dough” seems high maintenance and downright bitchy if you ask me.
“You seem to be giving so much of your efforts and time to the ‘dough,’ what does it do for you lately?” I asked with no small amount of snark in my voice as he sauntered off to the kitchen yet again. “I don’t see the ‘dough’ appreciating you the way that I do. Every time I’m around the ‘dough’ all it seems to do is complain and belittle you. I’m not sure who would put up with that. I would have been gone a long time ago!”
He just gave me that smile he does in my Crazy Train moments and went back to his floury concoction.
My husband is no quitter. His patience goes beyond normal mortals. I recalled his Cronut Test Kitchen when one flavor wasn’t enough… he had to make four! And then I recalled how amazing those were and I started to chill a bit.
In spite of the lack of the dough’s lack of respect, he held out. Never lost hope. In the end, I think he wore the dough down. It was his love and respect, and his never-give-up philosophy that won out.
In the end, my patience with his affair, his need — or should I say knead — for freedom, was worth it. These buttery pillows of perfectly golden goddesses were to die for. I started seeing his love affair with dough in a new light.
IF my husband shares his recipe, I encourage you to try them yourself. (He says all the websites that share recipes are as over-killed as Quinoa. I’m not sure I know what that means. “Is that a yes or a no honey,” I asked him. He just smiled at me. I heard him doing a Rainman muttering thing about italian-herb croissants sandwiches, so maybe … maybe… he’ll make those. God I hope so.) Anyway, if he does give you the recipe, you won’t be disappointed. If not, find a good recipe and do it anyway. Do as I say, not as I do, because there is no way I have the patience to do it!
Still… so delicious.