It’s all about the crust, baby.
I’m on a boat. Wait, no, a quest. I’m on a quest! A quest to make the most delicious pizza my belly will ever have the pleasure of digesting. Let’s be honest, it’s been a good long while since I posted last. But damnitalltohell, I’ve been busy! Busy repeatedly burning my poor little fingers in my 500 degree oven and even busier giving my apartment a not-so-even dusting of all-purpose flour. Who knew this pizza making business was so messy?? For those of you who don’t know me, Messy Jessie wasn’t just a cute, rhymey, school-yard nickname; it was a constant and accurate reminder of my supreme mess-making skills. So when I take on a project (no, quest!) that is particularly messy, even for the tidiest of folks, what ensues is part I love Lucy episode, part Hurricane Katrina aftermath.
Ok, let me back up a step or two. I was never a pizza girl. Never really had an interest in the stuff. Even in college, on those late nights crawling home from the bars, belly full of beer and craving something to sop it all up… most kids opted for Pizza Shittle Shuttle, but not I. Nope. Probably because college is where I discovered the true magic of Chex Mix. The most perfect food in the world, and readily available at every late-night gas station/convenience store, far as the bleary double-vision eyes can see. Long story short, pizza and me had a relationship based on two parts indifference, one part stubbornness, and seven parts Chex Mix. There’s just no room for pizza with that many parts Chex. It’s math.
Flash forward… The Greek! Yes, my tall-ish, dark and handsome fella with a winning smile and an appetite to rival Takeru Kobayashi. Boy oh boy, The Greek loves him some pizza. But not just any pizza, he’s one of those people who can rattle on about the importance of cheese/sauce ratios and marvels at crust bubbles (do what now??). Just like those wine snobs with their hints of oak and grass and tannins and poop or whatever. Give me a fucking break, I’ll stick my straw into my box wine and call it a day. Frrrranzia!!!!
Anyway, I don’t know how he did it, but he got me on the pizza bandwagon. I’m convinced that rohypnol was involved, but I lack the physical evidence to prove it. So, armed with my DIY attitude and his Mr. Pizza Know-it-All attitude, we set off on this quest together. Awww.
After thoroughly researching all aspect of pizza making (i.e. watching one episode of Alton Brown’s Good Eats that happened to focus on homemade pizza…) we decided that the first step on our journey was to find the perfect pizza stone. So off we went — to the place where I imagine most culinary adventures begin and end, The Home Depot! That’s right, no fancy shcmancy store-bought crapola for these kids, no sirree. At the ‘pot, we picked out a might fine 16”x16” travertine tile. We intended to buy a terra cotta stone (hey just like Alton!) but the Lawn & Garden section was super far away from the tile section and we simply had to save our strength. Plus, the nice old lady, who adjusted her hearing aide just enough to hear our cries for help, said that travertine would work just as well. Thanks, gramma! Can’t argue with the experts.
You know what else you can’t argue with? Carpel tunnel syndrome. Hot damn this post is getting too long and my feeble wrists are starting to ache, so stay tuned for a recap of our trip to Mecca to gather the finest of ingredients and our first (and second) attempts at bakin’ up a pizza pie!
Note: The pic up top is from our second attempt, and let me just say, MMMM mmmMMMMmmmm…
