On Saturday I celebrated my singlehood by a night in with some friends. We decided to make pizzas from scratch, which gave me a chance to try out Jim Lahey’s recipe for no-knead pizza dough. In the end, we added at least an extra cup of flour to the recipe, as the proposed ratios yielded an unmanageably wet dough. I also ran out of AP flour and had to use some of the whole wheat, which likely contributed to the degree of wetness. Might as well start with 4 cups of flour to the 1 1/2 cups water to avoid overhandling the dough like we probably did.
Pre-oven steps: stretching the dough, adding the tomato sauce, mozzarella, and basil.
After 10 minutes of tanning in the oven: sadly, no char, no crunch, but tasty and satisfying nevertheless.
This one is a 1/2 margarita 1/2 chicken sausage and oyster mushroom concoction by A. The sausage + mushroom was definitely an inspired combination.
Spinach pie by G, who attributed the attractiveness of his pie to his Italian blood. I let that one slide.
While our pizzas were not spectacular by any means, no restaurant experience quite compares to diving into a homecooked meal. Between the six of us, we polished off six pies as well as a huge salad and a few sides. The meal also provided a reinvigorating slice of happiness for a dampened spirit and reminded me of how therapeutic cooking in good company can be. Furrowed brows and hearty laughter over numerous retakes of dough stretching, deliberations over how much seasoning the sauce needed, watching a southern boy scrap together a quaint salad, peeking into the oven to check the status of our eagerly anticipated dinner, satiated smiles all around — collectively, these moments encouraged me to reconnect with the world, with the confluence of sensations, ideas, people, and objects that constitute my present life. I have yet another reason to heart pizza.