We need a new fridge. Desperately. The one we have does keep the food well within the Health Department's safe range and that's a good thing. What it most emphatically does not do is keep the dough from growing.
And since it sits next to my desk in the second-hand store, and since Alan is frequently away at farmer's markets, it falls to me to deal with it.
I'll be sitting in my nice peaceful shop, just going about my day, when I hear the ominously quiet, muffled "Kapouf". It's a sound easily missed in the ambient noise of pig trucks, riding lawn-mowers and rockin' car stereos. It is a sound whose magnitude does not do justice to the chaos it signals.
Because what that muffled "kapouf" means, is that one of the lumps of dough lurking in the fridge has popped the lid off its bin and is now escaping. First it will take over the inside of the fridge. If I don't wrestle it back into submission, it will push open the door and come after me. Drastic action is called for.
The bins have to be pulled out of the fridge, disentangling tentacles of dough. This action requires at least four hands, of which I have merely two.
Once they are out of the fridge, the lids must be taken off (no easy task, it sometimes feels like someone is hanging on from the inside) and the dough punched down so that the lid will fit back on.
As embarrassing as this is to admit, for the wife of the baker (and let us be clear that it is the wife of speaking here. Alan is a perfectly rational human being for whom all of this is just life as normal.), doing this kind of freaks me out, a little. In fact, it scares me.
Dough is a living thing. It grows. It moves. It breathes. And one of these days, I am going to encounter the batch that objects, strongly, to being punched.
We're going fridge shopping on Monday. I'll keep you posted.
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