Well, here we are at Day 5, with only two more "meals" left to brew in this week's cauldron of calamity. I don't know who's more relieved that we're nearing the finish line: Me, for no longer having to stress over what to cook with a collection of ingredients more random than Lindsey Lohan's sexual partners, or Lawyer Boy, for no longer having to stress that I'm going to ask him, at long last, to unhinge his jaw and suck down the vacuum pack of teriyaki tuna in the cupboard.
Last night's lemon chess cheaterfest was definitely a success, as was Molly's arugula pesto dinner, which was far beyond anything my kitchen is capable of spawning at this point in the week. The Italian dinner, complete with prosciutto-wrapped melon and homemade limoncello, got my Giada juices flowing, and I decided to (try to) follow suit with my own Italian masterpiece: Pizza made with absolutely no mozzarella to be found.
In between rolling out pie crusts for everyone I have ever met, and rolling out pie crusts for everyone I might hope to ever meet, last Saturday I happened to finally find a great recipe for pizza crust, while at the same time discovering that my oven will heat to a summery five hundred and fifty degrees. I made two really fantastic pizzas in three days and fortunately, as a totally unhinged baker, I still had tons of flour and yeast in the house. What sealed the deal was the small jar of tomato paste that I found in the back of the dwindling cabinet last night. Raise your hand if you know what tomato paste is. Raise your hand if you know what tomato paste is for. I, frankly, question humanity's need for the existence of tomato paste, since it seems to be nothing more than what happens if I leave tomato sauce on the stove for too long. If I had known I could bottle that crap and that people would pay real dollars for it, full-time employment would no longer be de rigueur in these parts.
My mom, however, recently told me that tomato paste is just tomato sauce concentrate, to which you can add liquid to turn it back into tomato sauce. Okay, seriously, why. do. they. not. say. that. on. the. can??? Or call it tomato sauce concentrate? Or even better, tomato saucentrate? Or just share with the world at large that THIS PRODUCT HAS A PURPOSE???
I'll write my Congressman about that later. Tonight, while my dough rose, I added liquid to turn the erstwhile tomato sauce back into tomato sauce, throwing in salt, herbs, and spices so it didn't taste like licking a tomato on Ecstasy. With the dough rolled out and spread with my reconstituted saucentrate, the only hurdle left to overcome was the fact that we had zero mozzarella cheese in the house. I pillaged the fridge for melty dairy products, coming away with two slices of havarti, a half-cup of Pecorino-Romano, and eight ounces of Gruyere.
Every time I cook with an unusual combination of ingredients, I think to myself, "this is such a cool idea! Why hasn't this become really popular yet?" Most of the time, the reason is, "because it tastes like ass." So when I mixed my three cheeses and spread them over the pizza, it occurred to me that there is probably a reason no one uses those three in harmony. But since it was either the cheese stooges or apple butter, I decided to take my chances with the cheese.
All in all, the pizza was good. The crust was outstanding, but I hadn't been forced to compromise anything in making that. The sauce, on the other hand, was HOLY SHIT TOMATO. I added lots of liquid, but it was still extremely tomato-y, although the garlic and spices fought hard to assert themselves against the crimson tide. The cheeses were a mixed bag. The havarti completely disappeared, leaving the Pecorino and Gruyere to duke it out for the title of Dairy Queen. Ultimately, the Gruyere won, beating out the Pecorino in a most unexpected way.
Does anyone else think Gruyere tastes like pineapple? I always have, but I was hoping that once it was onstage performing with the rest of the cast, the pineapple would take a backseat to, oh, I dunno, the actual taste of cheese. In fact, not so much. Either that, or a gnome snuck into my oven and spritzed my pizza with a pina colada.
With all the weirdness I've seen come out of my oven this week, my money's on the gnome.
***
As a reminder, LB and I are off to a wedding tomorrow night, to nibble on delicious cuisine that wasn't fished out of the back of the bottom shelf of someone's fridge, sprinkled with coconut and brown rice, and deep-fried. See you on Sunday!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment