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“Youshould start selling it.I’msure your face on a jar of pasta sauce would go great next to your face on all the tabloids.”
“Howmuch timedoyou spend in these grocery lines staring at me?I’mstarting to think you make up reasons to go to the grocery store.Baby, if you want to stare into my eyes,I’mright here.”
Maybe.Forthe next two weeks, anyway.
“Doyou want me to check on the dough?Icould start rolling it out.”
“Yeah, probably best to take advantage of a professional opinion, sinceIhave an expert here.Butthen we’re going to roll it out together.”
“Notsure it’s a two-person job.”
“Itis the wayIplan on doing it.”
Shakingmy head at whatever that means,Iget up from my seat at the kitchen table to check on the dough rising in a vintagePyrexbowl with a damp tea towel over the top.
Gentlypoking a finger into the top of the dough ball,Iget a nice bounce back. “It’sready.Whatwas the big plan for rolling these out?”
“Thisis my first rodeo, making pizza at least.So,Ithought you could show me how it all works.”
“Sure.Areyou ready?Sauceunder control?”
Jacksongives his precious sauce a gentle stir and then walks over to me.
“It’seasy.Youjust get a bit of flour on your hands.Thenyou flour the board.”Carefulnot to squish out any air bubbles that developed while the dough rose,Ipush the puffy ball out of the greased bowl and onto my floured marble pastry board. “Howmany pizzas are we making?Andare they thin crust or thick crust?”
“Whatdo you like better?”
“Thincrust.Easiernot to get soggy.”
“Thincrust it is.”
“Thisis probably enough dough to make eight thin-crust pizzas.So,I’mjust going to cut it in half.Andthen in half again and again until we have eight even-sized balls to work with.”
“You’regood at that.”
“I’ma professional baker.It’sliterally my job.I’vethought about serving pizza at my bakery one day.Ithink it would be good to have some lunch options to have people coming back in later in the day.Maybeflatbread style or sheet pan style?Youreally can’t go wrong with bread, sauce, and cheese.”
“Here’shoping,”Jacksonmutters under his breath.
“Ready?”Iask, asItoss a round ball of dough at him.
Hishand darts out to catch it, and only a little extra flour ends up on his shirt.
Gettingmy own ball out,Iset it down on the marble board.ThenIgrab my rolling pin. “Youjust need to make sure that the rolling pin has enough flour on it so that it doesn’t stick.Andthen you go like this over and over again until it’s the thinness and shape you want.Easy.”Idemonstrate for him, pressing the rolling pin into the soft dough to push it into an oval shape and then turning it and doing the same again, pressing it into a thinner circle.
“Likethis?”Jackson’shands move over mine on the rolling pin, and suddenly he’s right behind me, his body pressing into mine, his warm breath in my ear.
“Whatare you doing?”
“Learningfrom your baking expertise.”
“Uh-huh.”Iturn up to look back at him. “IfI’mthe teacher, shouldn’tIbe behind you?”
Hegrins. “Bemy guest.”
Rollingmy eyes,Istep back and around him.Helifts his arms up, andIslide my arms underneath, trying not to press against his body.Jackson’sbody only confuses me.
ButIcan’t reach the rolling pin.AndIcan’t see anything.Pressingharder against him to reach, my entire body is tight up against his hard muscle.Wrigglingmy fingers,Ireach for the rolling pin.Stillno luck.Youhave got to be kidding me.Ipress harder, andJacksongrunts asIshove him into the counter.
