Pizza was the one thing that we could eat regularly as a family without me worrying about the kids being ungrateful little bastards and literally bursting into tears at the prospect of eating a nice meal that dared to include things like rice or steak. It was the most reliable way to avoid dinnertime confrontation, with the children angrily pushing their plates away and me getting pissed at the kids for pushing their plates away. Pizza was the uniter. Pizza kept us together.
So I threw myself into making the best homemade pizza I possibly could. None of that “put some Ragú on a Boboli shell” crap. No, no, if I was making pizza at home, it was gonna be BADASS. I tried making my own dough, which caused the whole house to smell like a warm yeast infection. Then I experimented with store-bought dough and found that Safeway’s was the best. I learned how to stretch the dough without tearing it. I would dust the counter in flour and let the wad of dough fall away from its plastic bag and plop down onto the counter. Then I would push the dough down and work it with the butt of my palms, taking special care not to press down too hard. Then I would pick the dough up and let gravity stretch it out some more, running the edges between my thumb and forefinger all the way around and getting it so thin that it was practically a sheet of molecules. I pictured myself as an Italian immigrant running my own pizza parlor in some nameless section of Queens, yelling at neighborhood kids to stop playing stickball outside my storefront. Yousa kids-a, stop making-a trouble. It’s-a me, Mario!
I found all the best ingredients to use on top: San Marzano tomatoes pureed in a blender, fresh mozzarella cheese, dried oregano, freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano (not that Kraft garbage that comes in a green can), torn-up basil leaves, pepperoni, and a little drizzle of olive oil. In time, I became a master pizzaiolo. I would go to pizza restaurants and immediately declare the pie we ordered stale dogshit compared to my own. I dreamed of celebrity chefs coming to my house and pronouncing my pie the finest in the world. How does he do it using only a gas oven? I became unreasonably excited whenever Pizza Night came around. I would spend the workday brainstorming new toppings. What if I put an entire Caesar salad on top of a sausage pizza? Would that be so wrong? The idea of making pizza and seeing the kids actually enjoying it and me drinking an entire bottle of wine and eating half a bag of pepperoni while cooking it brought me to near-autoerotic levels of anticipation. Pizza Night was king.
One day, I came back from the store with all the pizza ingredients and I walked in on the kids watching TV.
“Do you know what tonight is?” I asked them.
They kept staring at the TV.
“It’s Pizza Night, people!”
Both kids screamed out “YAY.” My daughter jumped up and did a little dance.
“Yes, yes, that’s it!” I cried. “DO YOUR PIZZA DANCE.”
“Can I help you make the pizza?” she asked.
“Uh . . . are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, of course you can.”
“Cool!”
I grabbed my dirty Minnesota Vikings apron and preheated the oven to 450 degrees. The girl ran to her little play kitchen and grabbed a plastic toy rolling pin.
“I’m gonna roll the dough!” she said.
“Yes, you can help with that,” I said. “Now the important thing to remember is to not tear the dough. If we tear the dough, then Pizza Night is ruined forever.”
“Really?”
“No. Just don’t rip the dough.”
“Okay.”
I floured the counter and let the dough plop down. The girl pulled a little wooden ladybug stool up next to me and jammed her rolling pin into the mess of dough on the counter.
“Wait!” I said. “You have to flour the pin!”
“I do?”
“It’s very crucial.”
But it was too late. The pin had fastened itself to the dough and every time the girl rolled it, it stuck to the pin and came apart, destroying the dough’s precious integrity.
“Wait, we need to start over,” I said.
“No, we don’t. It’s easy,” she said.
“Take the pin out. You gotta take the pin out of the dough. You know what? Let me do the dough and then you can spread the sauce.”
I commandeered the pin from her and tossed it into the sink, then began stretching the dough with my hands, working feverishly to undo the damage.
“See how I do this?” I asked. “Isn’t this fun?”
The girl now looked bored. “Yeah, sure.” She started to wander back to the TV and I quickly put the dough down on the cookie sheet so that I could restrain her.
“Wait, wait,” I said. “I’m done stretching the dough. See? Now you can spread the sauce.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I swear. I won’t interfere.”
She got back up on her little stool and I presented her with a container of sauce. She dipped her spoon in it and spattered it all over the counter. I interfered.
“Sweetie, you have to spread it evenly. Try not to get it on the counter.”
“I know! I got it.”
“Yes, but you’re spattering it, see?”
I took her hand and tried spreading the sauce with her, like a golf instructor helping you with your grip. I was the one doing the real spreading. I was simply treating her hand as an extension of the spoon.
“See? Isn’t this fun?” I asked her.
She wrenched away from my grip. “No! I wanna do it!”
“Okay, but just please try to keep it contained to the dough itself.”