Michael sent the pizza dough spinning over his head. It
was a little lopsided, so its spin was irregular, causing it to stretch
unevenly. He frowned as it came back down, landing unceremoniously on the
table. He grudgingly reached for his rolling pin.
“If only the damn refrigerator hadn’t broken,” he
muttered to himself.
That was the problem. The refrigerator had broken so he
had been forced to store the dough in an ice chest, making it too cold. Taking
it out an hour early was not sufficient to allow it to soften sufficiently,
making it hard to work with.
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