After I begged for months and months, Margy finally agreed to make pizza.
I'm not telling the truth. Fact is, she has fun reveling in her special pizza-making gift. After all, what better way to spend a few hours in the kitchen? And with all the oohing and aahing over the results, there's no way she could think her efforts go unappreciated.
It's wild to note the changing moods of a batch of pizza dough. Margy always uses the same method, yet there are always subtle differences in the final product. One day the dough won't stop rising. One day the crust comes out chewier than most. Is it the weather? The tides? Margy's disposition?
This time I noticed the crust didn't brown as easily at its thickest points as it usually does. So in some spots it was almost pale. But it was crispy, often crunchy, and it was as savory and delicious as ever.
Tonight we had two kinds of pies, a few of each, with enough leftovers for two or three more meals: a red pie with pancetta, mushrooms, fresh mozzarella, and fresh basil; and a white pie with olive oil, spinach and garlic, anchovies, fresh mozzarella, and Parmesan. Both of us ate far more than we needed to, but we couldn't help ourselves. This pizza is magic.
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