I’m not feeling cheery. De tout.
You may have noticed that I’ve changed my header. That’s because, in the last couple of days, WordPress is on the fritz and the button that allows me to post pix has up and gone. I kinda remember when I’d type something into a dos prompt and cross myself, willing that the appropriate action would transpire. Well, I don’t think a novena or a trip to Lourdes on my knees is gonna help — support at WordPress hasn’t.
While I was doing my own “support” I noticed that I could upload a new header. So while the adorable (if I do say so myself) snaps I was going to post on my original story won’t work, a slab of the pizza we made last week will. So as technically frustrated as I am, I’ll remember to take my blood pressure medicine and think happy thoughts. And I’ll gab on about the subject that fits the header shot.
I think I ate my first slice of pizza when I was thirteen years old, off the hood of my Uncle Joe’s car. It was pointed towards the wide blue of Lake Huron on the Bahamas-worthy white sand of Sauble Beach, Ontario.I don’t think I ate another slice until my first year at McGill, when I was seventeen, I fell in with a bunch of American boys who had been bred on pizza. The closest parlor to the student ghetto at McGill was Pines Pizza, a Greek joint on Pines Ave. Let’s put it this way: it was cheap, they had a signature slice of raw green pepper smack damn in the middle of the pie and prompt delivery. As I’m sure you understand, munchies were happening.Montreal made great food — a smoked meat sandwich at Schwartz’s or Ben’s, a bagel way up rue St. Urbain. A poor student could eat well — just not pizza.
I went to Italy when I was twenty. I ate a lot of cheap mediocre pizza in Tuscany and Umbria, and some phemon pizza in Rome. (No, I never made it to Naples, but my husband had.) We both agree that Roman-style pizza, with a quarter inch crust, crispy all the way like toast, makes the best crust.
I realize that food people everywhere talk about good pizza as if it’s the Holy Grail. You need Nancy Silverton at your back. You need a wood-fired oven. Without that kind of oven at home, a great baker and an Italian chef, you can’t make great pizza. Oh! Of course, you need a pizza stone.
That’s balls, folks. As I learned from my Nonna-in-law, Annunziata Rovai, what you need is a batch of plain bread dough, a black pan (that big cast-iron skillet is perfect) and you always press the dough into the pan, never EVER roll it. Chaste toppings — lots of parm, not too many tomatoes, and easy on the mozz. 400 oven. It’s perfect.
We’re having pulled pork tacos with salsa and rice tonight. I’m on my second glass of wine, and I’m watching the silliest Olympic event — Ice Dancing. Whatever it takes to be cheerful, right?