An interesting thing happened. A few days ago, I made pizza dough for four pizzas, as usual. Generally, I do one each for Fiona, Jonno and me, and put the spare ball in an airtight plastic tub in the fridge, then make myself another pizza the next day.
But this time, unknown to me, Jonno was having dinner next door that night. So Fiona and I had pizza, and I put two spares in tubs in the fridge. I made myself a pizza the next night as usual using one of the balls. Then the next night, I made a third. But by this point, even though the dough had been in the fridge all the time, it had continued to ferment so the point that it completely filled the tub, and had become very light and soft.
I usually think of this as my second favourite Austen (after Pride and Prejudice, naturally), but on my re-read of all six, I found to my surprise that I didn’t enjoy it as much as I had Sense and Sensibility. Perhaps it’s partly because I had overdosed on screen adaptations recently: the Kate Beckinsale and Gwynneth Paltrow versions from 1996, the 2020 film with Anya Taylor-Joy, and the 2009 Romola Garai TV series. I really enjoyed all of them, but I guess having seen four rather different perspectives on the novel, the novel itself didn’t really have much more to show me.