In the complicated state of the baking industry, one can appreciate the value of great dough. It seems like people pass this by like beggers on the street these days, but the importance of quality dough is hard to come by. It's not something you purchase from the supermarket (by the way, who calls it a supermarket anymore? THIS GUY) and walk away happy as a sea mussel that missed the batch that got boiled for overweight consumers at the casino. It is a product of greater magnitude with universal possibilities. It's a being that you create from your heart, your pelvic region, your big left toe. It's a form of cloning the late, great Ultimate Warrior of the WWF (whichever one you want to pick is fine. I think he had three alias). The texture of dough and it's consistency is difficult to grasp at first, fumbling it around in your hands like a newly used diaper. The true beauty of it's art form is that once you get it, you've got it. Like stink on shit, you feel like the shit. 

I had my first experience with dough last week in my lab. The chef is hosting a 5 star dinner next month at the school, and needs 1600 duck raviolis made before that to be served to the trust fund babies that contribute to the school who have never actually been there before. Nice that they donate their not-so-had-earned-money, but the infomercial fame and not-so-much fortune is what they really strive for. It's a sad truth, but people want to shine like a dog's ass just because they can. 

So we enter the lab with little to no knowledge of how to make pasta. Chef showed us briefly how to mix the dough, get the consistency we needed, and roll it through a pasta machine to lay the damn thing flat out to assemble the product. It was a crash course for sure, but I followed with great detail. I took words that he was saying and pretended they were coming from someone more important, like an imperial officer at jury duty (you know, the guy who says, "ok, juror #9 (that's you!) you are excused. They become a fantasy of yours based solely on the fact that he or she has the power to rid you of such a stupid responsibility as jury duty). 

I took what I learned and immediately started working on the dough. Tough, dry, and the color of mucus from a rhino. It was easy to work with the first time through the ravioli, setting it on the mold and slapping those duck filled heavenly pieces on the table like a stripper hitting the bottom of the pole. The true challenge was using the excess dough to make another ball of fun to go through the pasta machine again. This. Was. Ridiculous. 

Evidently, I was the only person that could grasp a handle on the hard to work with dough. People were yelling at it, throwing it against the table telling the dough it was worthless and not worthy of their time, and bribing others that had fresh dough to exchange for some hard boiled eggs or a quick reach-around. None of these approaches obviously worked, so I stepped in and explained. 

"Guys, you have to caress the dough. Make it feel loved. Massage it where there may be tension. Talk dirty to it like you're about to fill it out like an application. You get now, right?"

Silence. Blank stares. Drool dripping. You get the picture. 

I ignored the ignorance and went about my way of dealing with the dough. I'd compliment it, give it air kisses, and congratulate it on a formation well done. It's a way of respecting the dough, and, in turn, the dough will love you for it. 

The crew continued to watch. Crew watcher count: 4

4! 4 people sitting around me, watching me work. Watching this sexy process continue for 90 minutes. 

90 minutes. Yes, really. 

I didn't mind the gawkers and ooh ahhers. They made me feel good, like I was doing a dough demonstration for a bakery company that predicted future profits so they could steal the money and spend it on strippers. Then put 60,000+ out of jobs and go bankrupt in less than 24 hours. Billions gone. Why does that sound so familiar?

But at least I'd know dough better than anyone else. 

We managed to finish 300 that day. Only 1300 to go. 

Fuck. Me.