Instead, I cursed, folded the torn dough over itself like a calzone, shoved it in the hot oven, and set a timer for "whatever."
What came out wasn't pretty. It was lopsided, leaky, and the edges were charcoal in some spots and pale in others. But when I cut into it? The butter had pooled in the crevices. The zucchini had caramelized into jammy ribbons. It was devastatingly delicious. That galette taught me that precision is a tool, not a god. zoe guttenplan
Go burn the garlic toast. Over-knead the bread. Use the pre-shredded cheese. Instead, I cursed, folded the torn dough over
For a long time, I thought that was the only way to cook. As a food writer and recipe developer, I have spent countless hours testing the elasticity of pizza dough, measuring the exact grams of sugar needed to achieve a "crunch without the shatter," and debating the merits of a 350°F vs. 375°F oven. The butter had pooled in the crevices
