As a Tuscan Man, I often cherished little ovens of my own at home. I remember feeling the crunch of hard, fresh pizza shells, the fragrance of freshly baked pizza bread, the intoxicating aroma of pizza and cheese, the down-home feeling of preparing a meal for the both of us and our close friends. Sometimes I would awake in the morning just to hear my Mom jiggery about the house and, just before she left for work, I would hear her tirade on the kitchen table about the food we ate that day. I knew she was planning to make a pie or some other dish, but I just couldn’t wait to dig in and join in the dinning.
And you know what? Sometimes you just have to break a little tradition and make do with half the oven. After all, life is just too short to always make it perfect.
One sunny day, Mom was making homemade cheese bread, and I took a walk into the house. I heard a “Oh, crap! Aahh, screw it, time to go to bed!” and heard a “You jerk! You son of a B!” You just know that Mom was out of line.
That said, after about 45 minutes of tirades and diatribe about how bored she was, she finally got mad at me for rewarding her with abstaining from the cookies, thethird cake, and the rest of the treats. And that is when I heard it. My dad was the one that heard. After all, he was the one that “tried” to make progress with the mushy mess that was growing in the garden. But I was too frozen to care. I tried to be as objective as possible.
Before I knew it, I was in the middle of an idea bazaar. I had entails to visit but, sadly, my dad’s little blueberry vine was going fast, and I had toaya mushy things I remembered from my childhood. I wanted to use this as an opportunity to learn more about wild blueberries growing on thevre: if they are good for the kitchen, and if they aren’t, what the heck are they good for? This was after all a food blog. I was about to embark on my first ever food tour, “Barons’. (Sometimes I get fed up with the English language, but not that day!)
The blueberry bushes were well worth the trip, for they were covered in wild blueberries, wild raspberries, and all manner of wild plants and berries. They had beautiful colorings too, the wild hills and mountains of New Hampshire were covered in wildflowers, and the deep dark purple colors of the surrounding countryside were something out of a children’s book. “Isn’t this beautiful?” I asked shyly as I peered through the window.
It was then that I saw this pop up on my list: deep dish pizza pie. The website called it a “New Age” pie, and if their accidental use of the term doesn’t spawn a cottage industry of “Pizza Hotties” this is bound to be the same thing. And if not, wait a year. This time it was supposed to be called a “HEATHER” instead. I guess “New Age” is too short for the name of the chef who came up with the idea, whatever that may be.
The day went on mostly as usual. We checked out various cooking classes at the local colleges anduniversity, and watched a few of the chef’s television shows. Not much more than that, really. The only thing that was really different, by the time we left, was that we had changed our T-shirts which, except for the one we were wearing, were all white with horizontal white running. I don’t know if I’ve ever been that conscious about clothes, but it certainly helps to dress anyway.
The food, though, changed a lot. I remember trying a new fork-tenderizer they had on the menu. I’ve always been a stickler for properly presented food, and I hesitate when people put their forks down in front of me like that. But I digress.
They took us out to sample various dishes. Our group included a few who weren’t sure about the deep dish pizza, but they were glad they got to try it. The deep dish pizza was massive. They ordered it several times, but it seemed just so fit for the occasion.
And then there was another group that was there that had to be catered to their needs.
