The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [70]
As I discovered in my early forays with bread baking, it is all about science. And I am just not a very precise-minded cook. The fun shuts off in my system after approximately four and a half minutes of repetitive kneading. I still wanted to make a good crust for my pizza. But I didn’t want to spend an eternity getting to that point.
I’d heard of people buying dough on its own from pizza shops before but had never done it myself. So on my first visit, ever, to the nearest pizza shop in my new neighborhood, I walked in with trepidation. I waited while someone ahead paid for her order and walked out with a large cardboard box smelling like just what my appetite was asking for. Then I asked the man at the counter if he sold uncooked dough.
Expecting at least a quizzical stare, I was surprised when he immediately responded, “How many? One?”
I guessed that he meant enough dough for one large pie, so I nodded yes. He turned around and took a metal plate with a round pat of dough out from a shelf in the kitchen. Then he asked if I was going to use it that night, to which I nodded again.
“If not, then you should put it in the refrigerator,” he instructed casually. He slipped the dough onto a paper plate and tucked it inside a white paper bag.
“Two dollars,” he said.
I handed him two bills and took my purchase, silently cursing myself for the takeout bag and paper plate.
Once I got home, the pizza making got under way. Since this dough had already been kneaded and allowed to rise for however long the pizza shop preferred to do things, it needed only to be stretched out on a pan, topped, and baked in a hot oven. Ben helped me forge the dough into a floppy rectangle of somewhat uniform thickness, even taking a few attempts at tossing it in the air first. Luckily, the dough didn’t fall on the floor. Next we placed it onto a rectangular cookie sheet, for lack of a round one or some other pizza-specific baking pan. I spread on some simple tomato sauce I had simmered earlier that week from a can of plum tomatoes, and spiced it up with a little more crushed red pepper. On top of that I layered on shredded mozzarella. Ben and I arranged some jarred jalapeños and slices of lightly browned Italian sausage on top—this was Ben’s favorite pizza-topping combo.
The result of this pizza night was even more satisfying than I would have liked. I just wanted to keep eating, no matter how full I was. The pizza so nearly resembled the actual takeout experience, only it was better tasting, with all the toppings we’d added. I ate half the cookie sheet-sized pie in one night. Between the two of us, we finished it off.
I had aimed fairly low, hoping only to re-create an average slice of New York City pizza, more or less like the ones sold where I had purchased the dough. But what I came away with that night of our first pizza binge was something more than I’d bargained for. I always hated shops that used too little sauce, so I spread on a thick, oozing layer that seeped into the dough and made some parts a little sodden, though not in an unpleasant way.
After this success, I made pizzas every now and then. I tried to make them healthier by adding less cheese and more vegetables—sliced bell peppers, broccoli, zucchini, or whatever I had in the fridge. I used pesto and tapenade instead of tomato sauce sometimes, and learned to fashion other flatbread-like foods from the pizza-shop dough, like an olive oil and herb-rubbed, feta-topped Middle Eastern-style za’atar bread. It took about twenty minutes to make, from raw dough to a fully cooked, takeout-like snack.
Even though I had learned to cook weeknight meals pretty quickly, my nightly exploits in cooking were far from done by the time I put the last dish on the drying rack. I’d end up blogging about my recipes late into the night, which annoyed Ben, because I’d keep the lights on in our little apartment, and my tapping on the keyboard kept him up.
By this point, my blog was no longer just about