I hadn’t looked at Martha’s pizza dough recipe in years. Not since the last time I tried to make it and dropped the bowl mid-stir—cracked flour line across the floor like a fault line. This time it just… showed up. Folded in the back of a splattered notebook. Her Highness’s version. Of course.
What the Original Looked Like
Her version is calm. precise. like she knew exactly who she was when she wrote it. Two packets of yeast, a warm bath of water, sugar like a whisper, oil like a mirror. Four cups of flour that don’t argue. Rise it once. Knock it down. Knead like it’s nothing personal.
It’s clean. It’s reliable. It’s Her Highness in olive oil form—elegant, no nonsense, and somehow smug in how soft the dough always turns out.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have new yeast. Just the old jar in the fridge with the hand-scrawled “do not trust after March” stuck to the lid. But it foamed enough. I used sea salt from Provincetown—still tastes like that weekend. I was supposed to throw that tin away.
I also didn’t let it rise all the way. Got impatient. Blame the weather. Blame the memory of that day. Blame the dog barking two doors down. Doesn’t matter. The dough still worked. Maybe a little denser. Like me, that day.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The water went in first—hotter than it should’ve been. I panicked, swirled it until my fingers said “fine.” Yeast sprinkled like snow. That quiet fizz. I used the green Pyrex bowl from college—the one that outlasted two relationships and a dozen houseplants.
Flour clouded the counter. I didn’t level it. Martha would’ve stared me down if she’d seen how carelessly I dumped it in. And I stirred with the wooden spoon that’s permanently orange from last fall’s curry incident. The dough stuck to everything. My hands. The drawer handle. The cat, briefly.
Then the dented Dutch oven caught my eye—wasn’t using it, just sitting there by the sink. The one I dropped the night I left him. Still dents me back when I see it. I tapped it, absentminded. Like saying hello to an old injury.
Mae walked in mid-knead. Asked if I was making “that crusty thing from when Aunt Liza visited.” I said sort of. She nodded like she believed me. I didn’t believe me.
I shaped the dough too fast. Didn’t rest it long enough. It tore a little. I patched it. Isn’t that the whole game?
A Few Things I Learned
It doesn’t need to be perfect to hold you.
Let the dough be stubborn—it softens with heat.
The pan doesn’t forget, but it forgives more than I do.
What I Did With the Extras
Mae tore the edges off the baked round, dipped it in leftover sauce from two nights ago. I ate mine over the sink, no plate. The crust was chewy, not crisp. But it was warm. And it didn’t fall apart.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. Not for the crust. For the moment it gave me. And the silence it left behind.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The floor stayed cold. But the kitchen didn’t. I’ll do it again next time I need to feel full without explaining why.
If you want something softer, I made a ricotta flatbread last April that almost felt like forgiveness. almost.
FAQs
Yeah, totally. wrap it tight and ignore it for a while. just know it needs time to remember who it is when you thaw it. kind of like us.
Depends who’s asking. if it’s Martha, yes. if it’s me on a rainy Tuesday, I stop when it feels like a pillow I’d punch.
Start again. or don’t. I’ve made it with lazy yeast and still ended up with something good enough to eat off the pan with your hands.
You can. but the dough sulks if you rush it. still edible. just… moodier.
Nope. I used the one with the torn label from the back of the pantry. it still smelled like forgiveness when it hit the bowl.
Check out More Recipes
- Martha Stewart Green Bean Casserole
- Martha Stewart Green Juice Recipe
- Martha Stewart Peach Cobbler Recipe
- Martha Stewart Peanut Butter Cookies
Martha Stewart Pizza Dough
Description
Warm and stubborn, a little torn but still held together—like me, that morning.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Proof the yeast: Pour the warm water into something old and chipped. Sprinkle the yeast in, give it five minutes to bloom or don’t—mine barely did and it still worked.
- Add the flavor things: Stir in the sugar, the oil, and the salt. I didn’t whisk. Just stirred like I meant it.
- Bring in the flour: Dump in all four cups. Don’t sift unless you’re feeling nostalgic or regretful. Stir until it turns from soft to stubborn.
- Let it rise: Toss it into a bowl with olive oil smudged along the sides. Cover with a towel that’s seen things. Leave it alone. An hour or until it feels alive again.
- Knead or don’t: I turned it out onto the counter and gave it a few half-hearted kneads. It didn’t complain.
- Shape and bake: Form it however you want—round, rectangle, chaotic blob. Bake hot (like 475°F) until the crust browns and the smell makes you stop what you’re doing.