Grown-up Pizza

My family go crazy for my homemade pizza and it’s not surprising.  It is objectively delicious. Pepperoni-mushroom-green pepper for Dean, Emily, and me, plain mozzarella cheese for Evan and Carl. I purchase pepperoni sticks from a local deli and choose Catelli Tomato and Basil Pizza Sauce in the glass jar. As for the crust, I do as I’ve done since my friend Cheryl and I baked Kraft Pizza Kits in mom’s kitchen in Calgary – I use a premixed dry dough, mix it with water, and set it to proof for 10 minutes before pressing it into the pan. It’s easy, it always turns out, and I love that.

Yet, in recent years I’ve felt uneasy about continuing to buy Co-op’s convenient premixed dough in its plastic packaging. Non-recyclable plastic packaging. Plenty of my friends (including, I’m sure, the talented Cheryl!) make their dough from scratch. Plus (unlike pizza kit dough) handmade dough is artisanal and  grown-up in ways my cooking usually isn’t, but probably should be by this stage in my life. So in December, because it was Christmas holidays, the kids were all home, and I wasn’t working, I decided I should pull on my big-girl pants, find an online pizza dough recipe, and give it a try. It seemed an appropriately pandemic thing to do. Surely, once I began and discovered how easy it was, I could pat myself on the shoulder for taking this (absurdly) small risk and in future proudly serve my loved ones in this different, better way. 

Jamie Oliver’s pizza dough recipe seemed just right, but halved, since his full recipe made eight pizzas. Bravely stepping into the kitchen, I began, weighing out the special 00 pizza flour and adding salt. Next, the recipe instructed me to mix the  liquid ingredients in a jug. My red Italian ceramic jug (so Christmasy!) would be perfect, and I lifted it down from the shelf. That is when the red serving tray (held in place against the wall by my jug) slid forward, sweeping before it a handmade angel-shaped ceramic bell purchased when we lived in Lithuania nearly 25 years ago. My angel struck the hardwood floor as I gasped, unbelieving. How could this have happened? My eyes teared up as I bent down to gather the pieces. Her wings were intact, but her head – with its serene face and half smile – had broken off. Feeling so sad, I set the pieces aside in a safe spot for a time when I could attempt to glue her back together. It was an inauspicious start.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to collect myself and returned to my recipe. I poured sugar and the contents of a yeast packet into the jug, then reread the recipe. Oh, I should add them to the liquid. Carefully I poured the yeast and sugar back out into a bowl, only to find tiny yeast pellets bouncing wildly onto the counter. Darn! Next, checking the instructions, I measured out 850 ml of lukewarm water. There. Suddenly a pang of panic; I had chosen to half the recipe, so I needed 425 ml, not 850. I touched my hand to my chest with a breath of relief. Imagine if I’d messed up the whole recipe by using twice as much water as needed!  

After carefully remeasuring the water and anxious to avoid another mistake, I again checked the instructions:  place the flour mixture onto my counter, creating the shape of a well. I should pour the liquid into the well, then gradually draw in and mix in the flour. This was a new technique for me but what should I expect from a new recipe? I poured. As the well filled to capacity, I filled with concern. Perhaps the diameter of my flour well was too small? Which is when the liquid breached the flimsy floury rim, spilling all over the counter. All over the counter, towards the wall, towards the sink, towards the counter’s edge where it would flow onto the floor. With a panicked squeal I sprang to “catch” the water and oil mixture before it went further, frantically drawing the liquid with my hands back across the counter to the flour, where it could became a sticky, lumpy mess.  

At about this moment our daughter Emily, having urgently summoned her father from the family room for a rescue effort, rushed past the lighted Christmas tree and into the kitchen with Dean.

“No!” I shouted over my shoulder, thrusting a single, gluey hand between me and my loving family. “No, go away, I don’t want you here!” No, as the shame coursed through my chest and throat. I couldn’t bear, in addition to the shock I felt, for Dean (such a capable cook) to watch me, the tears brimming, grapple with doughy disaster. I sent them away, away to where I couldn’t see their sympathetic faces.  Sent them off, then turned to (literally) scrape up and patiently knead together my brave first attempt at artisanal pizza dough. 

Clumsily I rolled out the dough. I built three very fine pizzas and glued on the angel’s head as they baked. I hugged Emily and Dean and thanked them for caring about my troubles. My family raved as we sat round the table, for the pizzas were objectively delicious.

But I’m not sure if I’m grown up enough to crack open another jar of yeast.