Pizza
is not our favorite dish, but at times it fills a need and fits the menu
perfectly. One Friday evening was just
such a time. After a long hard week, the
Missus and I chose to spend a quiet evening at home for a nice pizza dinner.
Takeout
pizza has failed to win our favor, delivering poor toppings and tepid
temperatures in recent deliveries of the popular pie. Determined to produce a satisfactory, if not
outstanding pizza, my bride opted for a popular brand of frozen pizza widely
advertised on TV as being far better than the home-delivered counterpart.
It is
only fair to point out that Mrs. Cheever is indeed a grand master of the
kitchen. Her talents in this area have
caused each of us to accrue about a pound per month since our marriage some
three years back. Her cooking skills are
well known and widely acclaimed.
To
prepare the delectable dish, a large round pan was selected having perforations
in the bottom to allow the heat to penetrate the pie from both sides, producing
the most thorough and timely rendering of the Neapolitan classic. The oven was preheated to emulate the
coal-fired infernos of
Patiently
we waited for the signal that the proper time had elapsed and the pizza was
ready. Slowly the minutes ticked away as
we fought back the pangs of hunger. When
would the damned thing be ready?
After
a seemingly interminable cooking period, the beeping sound that we had long
awaited filled the room with the signal that our precious pizza was now ready
for consumption. Quickly it was thrown
upon a cutting board to be divided into tasty triangles of guaranteed
goodness. The product looked as good as the
shown on television. The added items
appeared properly integrated with the frozen base goods, and the moment of
truth drew nearer.
My
wife is, as previously explained, a veteran of the kitchen, and when she showed
signs of frustration I became immediately alarmed that something had gone
awry. Wielding a rolling pizza cutter,
she rolled across and back, turning the pie incrementally to properly dissect
the circle into suitably sized segments.
Complaining that the cutter was not cutting, she appealed to me for
assistance, an ominous clue that all was not well at our pizza party.
Obligingly
I took the wheel and began tracing the cut lines established by the chief cook,
but again to no avail. This was the
toughest pizza crust I had ever encountered.
Together we tried to slice the crust, forcing the pizza cutter wheel
deep into the somewhat soggy crust, yet never finding the hard surface of the
cutting board.
Something
was not right. The crust was moist and
yielding on top, yet the bottom was tough as whetting leather. An investigation must quickly be made to
solve this mystery.
Lifting
the crust from the outer edge, I carefully peeked beneath the pie only to find
a disc of corrugated cardboard intimately engaged with the pizza dough after a
cooking of the prescribed duration.
Shielding the pie from the heat, the cardboard absorbed much of the high
temperature needed to cook the dough.
The crust was half cooked, and the cardboard well done. A culinary disaster!
Embarrassed,
the cook, upon learning of the revelation, shoved me aside and attacked the
composite concoction. Angrily she tore
at the cardboard substrate, now an integral part of the crust, trying with
limited success to separate the edible from the inedible. The half baked dough clung to the cardboard
with intense adhesion, yielding only when she finally began tearing the upper
stratus of the crust from the clinging bottom.
So persistent was the bond of the materials that she slammed the pie
upside down onto the pizza pan (perforated, remember?). Savagely scraping the remaining dough from
the cardboard she slopped it onto the inverted remains, and hastily grabbed the
pan and threw the whole mess back into the oven for further cooking.
Amid
the flurry of angry actions, the cook overlooked the propensity of the
perforated pan to permeance by the ill-prepared pizza. Inverted, the topping becomes the bottoming,
and the bottom is where the holes occur in the specialized perforated cooking
pan. It is through these obscure portals
that the tomato sauce began its prompt separation from the pizza, being drawn predictably
downward by gravity. Seeking its way
down, the sauce came to rest on the cutting board, counter top, floor, oven
door, and the bottom of the oven.
Once
the hasty slam of the inverted pizza from counter to oven had taken place the
results were irreversible. Seeing red,
the cook was now so incensed that rage had given way to tears. Half our small kitchen was strewn with little
red trails of tomato sauce; our dinner was resubmitted to the fiery oven for
additional cooking, and the dripping sauce and cheeses now being processed into
a thick gray smoke as they found the bottom of the hot oven.
Feverishly
the red sauce was scrubbed from the various surfaces as the conglomerated pizza
ingredients cooked away in the smoking oven.
As soon as the cleaning operations ended, attention was directed to the
problem of air quality, suitably identified by the loud buzzing of the smoke
alarm.
Doors
and windows were thrown open to allow the smoke to be replaced by fresh air,
allowing a renewal of facilitation of human aspiration within the interior
confines of the dwelling. Evidence of the failed meal trailed in the air of the
immediate neighborhood. The smoke alarm
was silenced, and we were ready to resume the long waited meal.
Dinner
was dished in the form of a pizza goulash, spooned upon a plate in mounds of
recognizable ingredients, but lacking the congruity of the popular pie. Having the appearance of pizza propelled by a
Pupil’s Salad Shooter, the dish was served and quietly consumed without
complaint or other comment.
Upon
reflection, future efforts to circumvent the shortcomings of home-delivered
pizza will meet with staunch resistance from this writer. A sparsely topped, lukewarm, late-delivered
meal in a box for about twenty bucks sounds mighty good to me.