I've been regularly cheating on my boyfriend. Not in the horrible I should be ashamed of myself, how the hell could I sort of cheating. He'll laugh about it one day if he ever finds out. He's fallen in love with me, and my homemade pizza. I load it up with Portabella mushrooms sauted in butter and fresh oregano, onions and garlic caramelized in white wine, crispy baked salted paper thin potato slices, fresh chopped home-grown tomatoes and a pizza base of pesto and ricotta. Top it off with fresh sliced mozzarella and shaved Parmesan. It's all pretty incredible, but his favorite part is my crust.
"This is the best pizza that has ever been created" he'll mumble between savory bites.
"But this crust! How did you do it? It's amazing--it's thick and light and soft and crispy all at the same time."
"I'm so happy you like it. I made it just for you."
"No really--it's incredible. It tastes just like it's made by an old Italian who's worked in a Pizzaria his whole life."
"Well, I just hope the next one is as good. Dough is really hard to get right--I think it's more luck than anything."
"You've got to teach me how to make it like this. You're incredible. Tell me how you did it."
"No Nick--a girl's got to have a few secrets."
I hope to take this particular secret to the grave. I pick it up fresh, already made (but still unbaked) and ready to go at any number of the local pizza joints around town. It costs me $4.00 for an extra large and I get to chat with the old Italian guys, who have been making it their entire lives, while they flour and box it up for me.
I love how impressed my chef boyfriend is of my pizza dough. This remarkable light, crispy creation coming from the girl who can't even bake boxed brownies properly. He's totally clueless and even though it's cheating--his reaction to the taste is worth it every guilty time.