January 12, 2009

Little Things
When I was in college, I shared an American Thanksgiving supper with friends. We spent the day cooking together – turkey, potatoes, green beans, yams and, of course, dinner rolls. I was in charge of the rolls. Looking back, that may have been a mistake.

I love to eat raw dough. Most any kind will do – cookie dough, cake batter, biscuit dough, bread dough – you get the idea. So I rolled out the yeast dough, sliced off a corner and ate it, rolled some more, sliced and ate, rolled, sliced, ate…. I don't know how much of the dough I consumed before the rolls hit the oven, but I remember it as a wonderful afternoon. Until about a half-hour later.

Yeast, it seems, likes a dark, moist, warm environment. In me, it found one and did what yeast does best – it grew. And grew. And grew.

After a while my stomach was distended and I felt like the Pillsbury Dough Boy with a burping disorder.

It was soon time for supper and I felt too full to eat anything. All of that scrumptious food and I couldn't eat.

That day I gained a new respect for the power of yeast; it doesn't take much to make a big difference.