Careless Cook IV

I have enjoyed making pizza in my home. Over the years—almost twenty-five or so—I have prepared the dough, purchased pizza sauce (even sometimes made it by myself), mozzarella cheese (sometimes fresh and sometimes even vegan) and for the daughters ranch dressing to dip the crust; heated the home oven to excessive but not sufficient degree and baked the pizza sizzling hot. The product was always mouthwatering, and my daughters were always delighted with the result. We were a pizza loving family. We love pizza.

I was in my early teens before I had the good fortune to actually taste pizza. This happy event occurred at an establishment called Pizza d’Amore, located in one of the first uncovered shopping malls on Long Island. It had been built in Hicksville (really, Hicksville, also the hometown of Billy Joel!) and was referred to by us as the Gertz Mall, after the department store that anchored the mall. The Mall wasn’t easily accessed from my home—at the time there wasn’t public transportation available—nor did we think to hang out on the grounds. I suppose we were mostly driven there by parents until we were 17 years old and could transport ourselves. But perhaps I went only with my parents when they shopped. Certainly by the time I turned seventeen I was not around enough to frequent the mall’s offerings.

            Pizza d’Amore was a small establishment with just a few tables, and as I recalled it had only pizza on the menu. The pies were prepared in rectangular pans rather than round ones and were topped with a large portion of very white and maybe fresh mozzarella cheese. I had never tasted mozzarella cheese but was delighted that when I bit into the pizza piece the cheese stretched out string-like. With my fingers I would pull the cheese out between the slice and my mouth until it separated and I would push what hadn’t made it into my mouth back onto the piece of pizza. I could safely and quite happily consume three or four slices. 

Pizza became my comfort food and I would eat it whenever I could do so. I still do. There were very few pizza slices that wholly disappointed me. I ate it everywhere. When I worked at the Village School in Great Neck on most days at lunchtime I walked to the Italian Deli next to the school building and ordered two slices. Down in Greenwich Village Ray’s Original Pizza was a welcome stop and today wood-fired pizza ovens like those at Rubirosa pizza emporium on Mulberry Street down in Soho are ubiquitous. On the Upper West Side the gourmet pizza for me was to be had at Sal & Carmine’s, originally a tiny establishment situated underneath the Symphony Space on Broadway and around the corner from the Thalia movie theater. Inside there were no tables and barely room to stand at a small counter. Now when I travel to New York Freddie and Pepper’s at 76^th and Amsterdam is my first lunch stop.  In Burlington, Vermont I dine at Ken’s Pizza. Here in the Twin Cities if we dine out for pizza (a very rare event) our destination is Pizzeria Lola, or Black Sheep Pizza. Places where a slice can be had are somewhat rare here in the Midwest. Alas.

When I attended sleepaway camp in New Hampshire we were taken on a day trip to a carnival site whose exact name I forget but ends in Weir. There were rides and games and mostly fast food places: hot dogs, burgers, ice creams  . . . and pizza. I purchased a slice, and with my thumb and pinky fingers grasped the crust on both ends, placed my pointer or middle finger in the center and raised the pizza to my mouth. The proprietor looked at me and commented, “You come from New York!” I asked him how he knew, and he said that how I ate my pizza was how New Yorkers handled their slices. Eating in this fashion might burn the top of a mouth but there are protocols to be followed when it comes to pizza.

            I make pizza dough every week enough for three 12-inch pizzas. Almost once a week I prepare the pizza and every time I overeat contentedly. One or two slices of fare are usually saved for the next morning’s breakfast. Nothing goes to waste! When company joins us, I bake two pizzas and when my daughters and their partners visit we consume all three pies. After pizza, and continuing with the Italian theme we eat gelato.

            For all of us pizza is the ultimate comfort food, and we never tire of consuming it. Pizza can be eaten alone or in company, hot or cold, winter or summer, seated, standing or strolling. And for me the preparation of pizza has become a show of love and concern. Though the oven is never hot enough and the newer Ooni pizza ovens either too expensive or too dangerous, we have crafter some work-arounds, and we have rarely, if ever, been disappointed with the result. Pizza is the singular dish that even this careless cook can prepare without flaw. 

I’ve never been terribly interested in pursuing the Holy Grail, but as for the perfect slice of cheese pizza . . . well, finally, the search is too much fun to abandon it now!