Recently I made pizza for dinner. Working from home that day I could start it in my lunch break and leave it to rise and prove and hang out for about four hours under a tea towel at each stage. I felt like a New York pizza man.
We had a good meal with potato and Rosemary toppings and a Parmesan and rocket and then I thought nothing more of it.
That is until I went to put out my latest batch of washing. Bits of my pizza dough had stuck around.
How odd. I don't remember Louis getting any dough on his pants. Or on his jumper. Or tee shirts.
Ohh I realised I'd I flung the tea towel I'd wrapped the raw dough with into the washing machine and there must have been a scrap on which had thrived in the wet and wild of the machine.
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