She had to call someone. Who? Her mother. No, not her mother. If her mother found out about this, her “I told you so” would be so triumphant, Deena would vomit
Deena poked her calzone dough, frowned, and reached for her phone. Her sister Tzippi would commiserate.
“Very nice that you can adjust and push and pull and customize it to the ingredients’ consistency, but really, at the end of the day, a measuring cup has one job: to measure. And Mr. I-Won’t-Say-Names’s measuring cup can’t do that.”
“Are you serious?”
Deena poked the dough again. “I suspected something was wrong when my blondies came out all crumbly, and now my calzone dough feels like a rock.”
She took out her good old Pyrex measuring cup, filled it to the one-cup mark, and poured it into Mr. Katz’s measuring cup. The water reached a bit above the six-ounce mark.
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