25 October Friday

There’s a special moment in the cooking: I am in the living room, with say, an Agatha Christie mystery about to pop on the screen, and my nostrils get a tingle of the thing that’s a’cookin. I have learned, in almost all circumstances, when I smell the food cooking in the living room, it’s almost ready. That was true in the case of this pizza.

It started with a full to bursting flat of cherry tomatoes, all shapes, sizes and colors, from ruby red to deep purple to pale green. They were gonna rot right there in front of me if I didn’t act fast. Just like that Poirot!

I’ve always imagined that if I ever had to say, spend a weekend where Jessica Fletcher or Hercules Poirot were some how involved, I’d stay the hell away from them. These two are way too observant for their own good, like it’s their responsibility to know everyone’s relationship before the murder takes place! Has anyone been privy to more murders than these two? Miss Marple? At any rate, October is on the wane and the tomatoes aren’t gonna improve with the passage of time. At least, not in this form.

First, I made a tomato, basil pie with goat cheese in a cormealish crust in a cast iron skillet. OK, very good. Then, a giant pot of cherry tomato sauce, which I simmered down and simmered down until it was smooth, creamy, and oh so tangy; it was such an amazingly alive sauce with incredible intense tomato flavor. It made me wince and pucker, a little pinch of sugar calmed it down. Then it came into its own and tasted great on pasta with a fresh scandal of cheese.

On the bargain table at the farmer’s market: gypsy peppers. The time of the gypsy pepper is come! I love these little guys, and I got a big bag of ’em for only one whole American dollar! Like the tomatoes, they are small and pigmentaly varied. Earlier, I stuffed and baked many of them, a wonderful thing to do to a pepper. Cream cheese, toasted pumpkin seeds, a little smoked paprika, salt. They were real, they were yummy. The remainder were chopped, mixed with the darling sauce, and scatter swept across the surface of this pizza dough.

I was hoping to tell you that it was the best pizza dough I’ve ever made, but that would be a little fib. I have made better ones. Better tasting ones, but maybe not better texture and whatever they call it, dough feel. It is representative of many of the doughs that I’ve made over the years and you know he knows, right? Hercules? He knows you’re lying lady, he knows you’re lying. He saw you talking to the recently violently deceased elderly gal out by the horse stalls, and he saw you yell at her about your gambling debt and, oh, I’m sorry, I’m writing this with the damn show on. This blog is about food, and by golly, I’m sticking to it. Nothing can stop me now. I’ll stick to my dough from now on. OK, so the dough was representative meaning that I used bread flour, used as little as possible to keep the dough tender and lightly spongy, I only kneaded it very briefly (but thoroughly, goofy!!), and made sure there was plenty of olive oil in the pan. Now I’ll admit, this dough maybe a little stickier than you’d like, or at least tackier than normal, but stick to this method, and you’ll be making pizzas worth stickin around for, kiddo! When I poured it out of the bowl after the first rise, it rolled away from me in thousands of little spider string tendrils holding onto the side of the bowl. Our little yeast brothers and sisters, trying to climb up the side and escape with dough on their back, tethering them. For a brief moment, they believe that they can attain freedom from being an indentured leavener. They struggle up the side of the bowl in the futile first rise. We punch them down mightily. They try again. We cook and eat them. Their ultimate defeat is our glory in the bakery. Thank you, yeast, for your sacrifice.

It rose beautifully, it was filled with wonderful air pockets, it was fun to play around with. It spread easily, It baked beautifully, crisp all along the bottom, I had reduced the sauce down, so it wasn’t liquidy, and I put just the right blend of Parmesan, Mozzarella, and some interesting other kind of cheese like Gruyere. Gruyere adjacent. It baked till I smelled it, walked into the kitchen and OOOHHH, I know he did it, he was the one with access to the blow dart the whole time. He hated the old lady, he hated her. And rightly so, she threatened to spill the beans on, you know what? I’m sorry. I feel at this point you must be worthy of an apology. I will admit, that this blog is important, and my attention is divided. That’s Christie’s fault, really isn’t it?

OK, back to reality. All is great and grand and good. I enhanced the sauce with fennel, oregano, garlic, the usual.

It’s almost Halloween, and that means it’s time to think about Thanksgiving and what fun adventures we may pursue. At present, I have a duck, two entire racks of St. Louis-style ribs, and chicken bones for stock in the freezer. They’re gonna have to make room for our Tom Turkey!! Wow, is it time? Yes, it’s time. The holidays. Holidays.

Oh, and that ended up being the wrong murderer, and now they’re talking to someone else, who is going to turn out to be the right murderer or knows the right murderer. Shoot, I’m sorry gang, they gonna do a big reveal, I need to put down the pen.

Alright now, the show’s over. The dentist did it. Of course, the dentist. Any ole whodidlywoo, some in the community have been clammering for Turducken, which is an interesting idea, as I already have the duck. I think that’s in part what caused the clammering. I have already boned several turkeys in my time, I’m sure a duck and a chicken can’t be that much harder, right? Yeah?

Oh my good god. That looks challenging on many levels. I wonder if I am psychologically prepared to take on a project like this. Indeed, if I am emotionally mature enough for the patience and respect these dead birds deserve. It’s a lot of raw meat, animal bones, sharp knives flying around everywhere. I’d like to add that this is a stock image of a Turducken chosen from a panoply of images. I looked at many before I chose this one. I do not urge you to do the same. I have to looked at too many. I am desensitized.

On my kitchen counter there are three heavily pregnant persimmons. I have taken them to limit of ripeness, and we are all on borrowed time. At some point near to this one, the tired and stretched skin of the of fruit will give, and it will sigh forth a gush of orange red sweet and sticky innards that will ooze across the counter and dribble onto the floor, discovered in the morning by my right sock and consequent foot while the rest of me is trying to make coffee. If that doesn’t happen, I’ll be making persimmon pudding to go with that coffee!