We named her Bernadette. There was a small christening ceremony. And we did our first pizza a couple of weekends ago in her hot little belly. There is something about a yeast dough that you've punched down yourself. You've lit the fire and gotten it going with aged birch logs they dumped near the house and that he stacked neatly under the stairs by the garden in a kind of Alpine monument to home and hearth.
You've adjusted the air flow in the stove, got it burning nice and hot. The smoke tickles your nostrils and it also tickles the dough you've rolled out and slid into the hot oven. The heat seems to melt the mushrooms, crispen the paper thin sliced chorizo, and brown the dough even as it stays moist and warm inside with that come hither smoke flavor. This will not be the last.
I am going to the paper shop to pick out a blank book this evening before they close. I am going to cover it with the fabric cuttings leftover from the kitchen door curtains, and fill it with the recipes and stories. Tips and tidbits of information, observations from the garden, and stories I may want to remember in the coming years as we continue this most interesting journey.
Sarah and Erica both, come claim your prize!