Monday, November 15, 2010
Sure, I could write about how amazing my grandmother's pizza was, and how this was my all time favorite thing to make.
I could chronicle the sound of tearing open the little sunshine colored packet of yeast and pouring the granules in to a small cup. Stirring in a little bit of warm water mixed with sugar. Anticipating that earthy smell while waiting for it to proof and form teensy bubbles on top.
I could describe her nimble fingers and strong arms as we created her most perfect crust. Soft, crunchy, thick. Sweet.
But I won't do that since I have never been able to repeat it on my own. Nostalgia is all I have at this point.
My local grocery store must have taken pity on me, so now I buy it there where they make it daily. When I get home, I form it into a ball and place it in a bowl lightly coated with olive oil. Cover it with saran wrap and leave it in a cold oven where I forget about it for a couple of hours.
There it doubles in size.
Like my grocery bill on a yearly basis.
But my kids don't mind, because all they want to do is punch it down.
Bash. Smack. Wollup.
Poke. Prod. And pummel.
Better the dough than each other.
So when the older ones were in school and the babies were napping I made pizza with my four year old, N.
Who hasn't napped in 2 years.
He got to choose his toppings.
Ergo: Spaghetti Pizza.