Pick a peck...

of pitas?
I love making homemade bread and have some terrific whole grain recipes, including this one for pitas. They really are quite simple to make and taste oh, so much better than store-bought.
The pile you see above, however, was merely but a third of the pitas I made the other night.
Were we having a party?
Family coming in from out of town?
Expecting an army encampment in our front yard?
Um, no.
Despite the fact that the recipe makes more than two dozen pitas, I decided to double it.
This usually isn't a problem except that I'd been on my feet already for a couple of hours, making hummus, pies, etc., and my formerly broken foot still hasn't let me forget that I broke it twice in the span of 1 1/2 months this winter.
It tends to complain.
A lot.
In the hubbub of baking, making hummus from scratch, doing up dishes, and general dog maintenance - which mostly consists of removing various items, such as the mail, the newspaper, any stray Kleenex box, etc., from Ivy's cavernous maw, and keeping the dogs from sneaking samples of whatever is sitting on the counter.
Both my dogs, the St. Bernard and the mutt, seem to have inordinately long tongues. They both like to sidle up to the table or the counter and literally cast their tongues, a la fly-fishing, toward the food. If I'm not careful, we'll end up with soggy, pre-slurped entrees.
This also happened to be one of the days - I think we had two in May - when the temperature hit the 80s. Not a good day to have the oven on all afternoon, nor to be in the kitchen with Ivy. When she's hot, she pants.
When she pants, she drools.
When she drools, small ponds of slobber form all over the kitchen floor.
Small ponds of slobber = slippery, slidy puddles to dodge.
Oy, did you hear my foot complain?
Anyway, by the time Michael got home, it was already past 6 p.m. and I'd been rolling out and baking pitas for about 45 minutes already. I was hot. I was tired. My foot hurt and I just wanted to be done.
Whew, the last three pitas went in the oven, Michael pitched in to do the dishes, and I was just about to take my leave with a nice Merlot, when I noticed a dish-towel covered bowl on the back of the stovetop.
What the heck was in there?
I decided to grab the bowl so Michael could wash it, when I peaked inside.
The kids all claim to have heard my exclamation of dismay.
Only they called it a scream.
Inside that bowl was the other half of my pita dough, waiting patiently for me to divide, roll, and bake.
It was too late to refrigerate or freeze the dough, as it had already risen too much. There was no choice but to put my apron back on, dust the butcher block island with more flour, and roll away.
But I did take a fortifying swig sip of wine first.
It helps me cope.