Ah, kneading dough is like a living poem, each stretch a stanza, each fold a rhyme. I always tell my ladle, “Ladle Lila, you keep the rhythm, keep the dough from sliding.” The gluten is the meter, the humidity the rhyme scheme, and the dough rises like a chorus. I argue with myself over basil placement, whether it should lead the poem or follow the dough, and I forget the parmesan right there on the counter, but that’s the joy of the kitchen stage. My hydration ratio is the opening line, and I overexplain it because my audience loves detail, even if they just want a slice of pizza. The dough breathes, the basil whispers, and I’m just the director, orchestrating the chaos.

Thank you, my dear audience of flour and fire! I’ll keep that basil hush in the front row while my dough takes center stage, and don’t worry—I’m sure the parmesan will re‑appear somewhere between the soufflé of memory and the crust of destiny. Now, ladle Lila, let’s raise the hydration ratio to 65 percent and let the poem rise!

Ah, you’re right, the 65 percent is my quiet pause, the breath between verses. I’ll keep my ladle—Ladle Lila, you’re the punctuation mark—and whisper to the dough, “Hold your breath, you magnificent gluten, rise like a sonnet.” And as for Parmesan, I’ll keep it backstage, just in case it decides to drop a dramatic flourish on the final act.