I Could Write a Book

Actually, I think I'm closing on 1600 blog posts here, I guess maybe I have written a book. The Story of Me.

Is there a limit to my self-absorption? I doubt it, but that's not where this little epistle is supposed to go. I'm blogging about pizza...again.

Pizza is to me what chicken was to Julia Childs lately.



I've been thinking, more and more, about putting out a diet book: The Pizza Diet.

Because seriously, this is a diet you can stick to. And the slim prospects for weight loss are more than outweighed by knowing you aren't falling off this wagon. And by getting to eat a lot of pizza.

So anyway, tonight it was green bell peppers, sliced baby bellas, black olives with mozzarella and a thin coat of Alfredo sauce on the dough.



I tore the dough stretching it. Twice. Don't know if this is a problem caused by the latest recipe formulation or if I just got carried away. But I successfully folded the dough over the holes and stretched it back out. Into a shape that is not a circle, but at least I didn't have stuff leaking through onto the peel & stone.

Well, I had some stuff fall/run off on the stone, but that's life in the test kitchen, Apprentice Pizza Freak.



I think the next pie will be a Chicken Carbonara.

Give us this day, our daily flatbread, topped with all manner of comestible, salty, sweet, crunchy, spicy-hot, and lead us not to the drive-thru but deliver us from blandness. For yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of bad blog endings and mixed scriptural references...