Yeast Envy

Lest anyone other than close (soon to be less close) friends and family stumble upon these words, perhaps a few moments more of introduction. What with all the "hailing from" and "calls home," it is fairly obvious that we are youthful adults braving the seas of dithering masses that make up a major metropolitan area, banding together in pursuit of home-making activities as though to fortify ourselves against the depredations of urbanity-scurvy. We inhabit the three boroughs of NYC that you would expect (Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens), and are fortunately graced with decent-sized kitchens.

Note: Claire's kitchen is inexplicably missing an oven. Someone selected a shiny, new electric range with four burners, then popped in on top of the wooden counter and drawers, thoughtfully leaving the cupboard beneath intact rather than spoiling it with such an unnecessary modern inconvenience as an oven. Then they presumably painted a fresh coat of white paint on said wooden counter-top, touched up the sink drain with some gray paint, and sighed contentedly reflecting on a job done. (Deep Breath.) So, Claire and Matt simply trot down two flights of stairs to a communal/office kitchen that equally as inexplicably *does* have a gas stove any ol' time they want to heat some fish sticks, or whatever.

Another note: Matt and Claire never make fish sticks.

As you can imagine, our kitchens see their fair share of baking. But one little eukaryote is a rare participant. We don't bat an eye when it comes to culturing batches of yeast for brewing beer, but the mention of rising dough usually causes us to turn food magazine pages with fear and embarrassment. Happily, we are liberated from the tedium and anxiety of warming water and anticipated transmogrification: bring on the Pillsbury dough tubes!

-Claire