Dough
I enjoy eating dough.
Dough or batter of any kind: bread, piecrust, cookie, biscuit, roll,
scone, brownie, cake, pancake, any uncooked goodness. Thinking about it now makes my stomach growl. I don’t really understand my affinity for
it. It does have some nostalgia associated
with it. Helping my grandma make
pies. Or hovering while my grandma made
pies is probably more accurate. She
would throw in the ingredients without measuring, mix it up and taste a
little. Add something and taste
again. I thought it was fascinating. That she knew what to add based on
taste. She would let me taste the final
product. And I couldn’t get enough.
Another memory is making sugar cookies at Christmas time
with my mom and brothers. There’s always
a little bit of scrap once you cut out a cookie. That piece can’t be wasted. So I salvaged and savored each morsel of
leftovers.
Also, as a kid, we would have cinnamon rolls out of a tube
each Sunday morning. And my brother, who
knew how to work the oven, would take them out early so they were still stringy
and doughy. And we would utterly destroy
them.
So maybe my affinity for the stuff is related to home. I’m transported home when I consume a nice
chewy glob of raw dough. And sometimes
it’s nice to be home.
