New Haven is known for its pizza, or “apizza” as its signature thin crust and just-the-right-amount of char has come to be known. I always try to imitate the Italian pizza chef on The Simpsons who only speaks, uh, how you say? Broken English! when pronouncing apizza. I think it captures the spirit.
While we love a good pepperoni from Pepe’s or Modern, Chris has perfected the art of homemade pizza and it has earned its place among the best pies in New Haven. Our Friday night pizza is part delicious meal, part practice for the future parlor we’ll open if this whole academia thing doesn’t work out. We could call it Giulia’s to add some Italian authenticity, despite my total non-participation in creating this meal outside of occasionally throwing a steamer bag of green beans in the microwave. Sourdough starter, San Marzano tomatoes, whole milk mozzarella: all of his ingredients are subject to rigorous testing around our little dining room table or in front of the week’s DVD from Yale’s extensive collection.
Chris puts the dough together in the morning and lets it rise until it is at the perfect height. When he gets home he shapes the dough, makes the sauce and lets me get away with stealing bites of mozzarella while I cut the blocks into small cubes.
My Italian ancestors might be okay with my marriage to this particular Irishman.
When everything is prepared, Chris engages his tried and true method of skillet, broiling drawer, and oven cooking. It’s quite impressive to watch, even though I usually have to be caged in the other room with Christopher since opening and closing the broiling drawer while ignoring his parents’ incessant “no!” happens to be his favorite kitchen activity.
He broke free in a moment of Mommy-iPhone complacency last night and speed crawled toward the kitchen. I grabbed him just as Chris took the first beautiful pie out of the oven. Christopher let out a gasp worthy of a first glimpse of the Sistene Chapel or the initial viewing of the Breaking Bad finale.
We all love pizza night.