Creating The Best Pizza: The Final Frontier; The Toppings

 

Not everybody should be in the pizza business, but everybody is. Good pizza is hard to find.

Some Pizza Is Nothing More Than Garbage

The final stage of the pizza preparation is the topping. Many judge a pizza on the amount of toppings; more is better. (Those are the ones who know which day of the week each pizza joint has its all-you-can-eat-buffet and plan their week accordingly.) When people praise a pizza as good they will often say, “Did you see all the toppings?” “I like the pizza at so and so’s because they have a lot of toppings.” That’s like saying, “I don’t like the color of blue, but because blue is on sale at Home Depot; I’ll paint my house blue.” Those type of people should be condemned to shovel coal fires for pizza ovens for all eternity. (Just had an idea; Dante’s Inferno Pizza Palace – Bread Styx free!)

I hope this does not ruin pizza for anyone (I really don’t care), but when I see a mound of toppings for the sake of mounds of topping, I see garbage, I taste garbage, and without question it smells like garbage – because it is garbage! Now, do you want to know how I really feel?

A lot does not translate to better except for the heifers down at the all-you-can-eat buffets

So when it comes to getting into all those exotic variations like a California or Hawaiian Pizza (Get real California and isn’t Hawaii like Puerto Rico?), I’m not going there. I’m talking the basic pizza.

The Vegetables

Let’s start with two basic vegetables; peppers and onions. They should be finely chopped (not minced) about half to a quarter the size of a Skiddle (ask your kid). Sauté them. What is meant by sauté is slightly browned, but not cooked all the way. This is done very quick and in a hot pan (Toss in a pan sizzle, count to five, stir or toss, count to five, done). To insure this is done correctly do no more than a hand full of onions and peppers at a time. You don’t want them in a heap, but a thin layer only on the grill or pan. If you decide on mushrooms, they can be added to the vegetables, but they are best when sliced. If chopped the flavor is hard to taste. Slice them about the thickness of a quarter (I don’t know what to use if you’re in Canada. Slip across the border and get a quarter).

Of course you are thinking of other vegetables; that’s okay. You may have some you like, but this is a basic pizza.

I’m going to get a little freaky on you. Fresh sliced tomatoes are very good as a topping. I know what you thinking; what’s freaky about that? Here comes the freaky part; sliced green tomatoes. I know, I know; I’m such a traditionalist and I throw in some sweet-home-Alabama, Mississippi backwater, West-by-god-Virginia, country Mama stuff on you. Tomatoes are green before red, even in Italy. Here’s the deal; slice them and grill a slight crust on them and add as a topping. “Eeeeee dawgies, dat dar sure is some good pizza pie with dem dar green maters on it!”

The Meat

Next the meat. Hamburger will not be discussed. In spite of what you have heard or come to believe it is not a topping. It’s, it’s, I don’t want to say what it is. Pepperoni and Italian sausage only: If you don’t use these we’re pulling your ‘green card’ and sending you back to Cuba or Estonia; even if you didn’t come from there.

When is the last time you had a pepperoni pizza that you could actually taste the pepperoni? Yeah, really, it does have a taste. It’s not like those confession wafers that melt on your tongue. Buy pepperoni whole and slice it yourself. Stack two nickels; that’s how thick you want the pepperoni.

An hour after you eat a pizza I want you farting pepperoni farts that would make any Italian Papa proud and bring tears to an Italian Mama’s eyes.

This is what happens to people who put hamburger instead of Italian sausage or pepperoni on pizza. Yes, it's harsh, but it's a lesson that has to be learned.

Get your favorite Italian sausage and fry it in a hot pan or grill. Don’t slow cook it. Get the meat cooked as quickly as possible without burning. If you slow cook it the meat merely boils in its own moisture and the flavor is lost. I heard one guy get kicked out of the mafia for not cooking the sausage right. (You don’t get kicked out.) It’s kind of nice when the sausage has little crest on it from cooking.

The Cheese

There are only two kinds of cheese that should be placed on a pizza; mozzarella or provolone. If somebody wants cheddar or American excuse yourself and go to the bathroom; that’s where the gun is hidden.

My preference is provolone. No matter; use only those two. You can shred it, but it’s better sliced.

Arrange it this way; sauce (last week) vegetables, cheese, meat. Here’s a secret I’ve held on to; after the cheese sprinkle some oregano and parsley. Set the oven at 425. When the bottom of the crest is golden brown you’re good to go.

If you follow closely everything I have mentioned from the crust, to the sauce, to the toppings you won’t be having pizza; it will be PIZZA! You’ll go back to a time when pizza was pizza.

Mom Was Accused of Cheating

Mom worked for department stores like W. T. Grant.

Mom was always honest in her dealings with her employers. She worked hard and always did more than what was required.

She worked at W. T. Grant in the Northland Plaza in Lima, Ohio during the early 60′s. She had such a good reputation that Well’s Discount Department Store offered her a job for more money. After a year, she was offered a job at a Haag’s Drug Store in the same shopping plaza for more money yet. She took the job.

She really liked working there. She liked working with the public. She worked with two other women and they all got along so well.

Mom worked behind the front counter. That’s where the cameras, film, photo developing, records, cigarettes, candy, and gum were. She really immersed herself into the job. She learned all she could about cameras and taking pictures. She kept up on latest music trends so she could display the 45′s and albums better.

In time she was given more responsibility. She ran the store for the manager, because she knew it better. It was not unusual for her to get a call at home from the the store manager asking her about something.

There was even talk of here managing a store in another city, but she declined. It was out of the question; we owned a farm, Dad worked and I was in school. Her roots were planted too deep.

One day Mom came home about three hours early. She was quiet. When I asked her what was wrong she insisted nothing. She sniffled and I heard her cry ever so slightly.

“Mom,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“I got fired,” she said.

“What!” I said. “What happened?”

“Right after lunch they called me back to the office,” she said. “There was Pete (the manager) a man from the home office and some other man. They said I had been stealing from the cash drawer.”

Mom held her head and wiped her tears. “Just before I went to lunch a woman comes up to the counter and asked to see a camera. I was showing it to her. Another guy comes up and asked for a pack of cigarettes and then another guy comes up and ask change for a twenty. I really got confused. I stepped back and said, ‘Okay, one at a time here.’ I took care of everybody. The woman decided she didn’t want the camera. She left and I went to lunch.”

“That’s it!” I said.

Taking from an employer's cash drawer was never on my Mom's mind or in her heart.

“When they set me down in the office they told me they had been missing money from the cash drawers for some time. The three people that came in were hired to investigate. They came in to confuse me and make sure I was tempted into not giving the right change. In the exchange they gave me ten dollars too much. The ten dollars was not in the cash drawer. I told them I didn’t have the ten dollars and showed them my purse. The didn’t want to look at it. They said I could have done anything with it.”

Mom was heart broken. I remember her sobbing, “I was fired as a thief. I didn’t cheat my employer.”

Mom got a lawyer.

The lawyer talked to one of Mom’s workmates. She told the lawyer she heard Mom got fired, but didn’t know why. During the course of the conversation the woman revealed she recently had a lucky day; she found a ten dollar bill that was lodged between the cash register and the counter. The manger said: “Keep it, but don’t tell the other gals. It’s between me and you.”

A week later the store manager called and offered Mom her old job with a raise. He was apologetic and said a terrible mistake had been made. Mom told them to take the job and shove it!

Mom eventually got some “hush money” from her old employer. After she paid the lawyer it amounted to about a month’s pay, but most important to her she got her reputation and dignity restored.

Recently, I asked Mom about that event. She said, “Sonny boy, some things aren’t worth remembering; Those b*****ds.”

Requiem for Joe Paterno

Joe Paterno, quarterback at Brown 1949, a year before he took an assistants position at Penn State.

At one time no one said anything bad about Joe Paterno.

Within the last few months people could find little good to say about him.

With Joe Paterno dead all his supporters can now come out of the woodwork. Allow me to rephrase that; With Joe Paterno dead all his supporters can now be covered by the sports intelligentsia media.

The Child Abuse Scandal

The “stink” in this entire situation surrounding Penn State for the last three months is, was, and always will be on Jerry Sandusky, the Penn State administration, and the media . This story brewed and stewed for nearly a decade. The media and sports intelligentsia have all but ignored it until it became clear it could sell advertising time.

It was time to break the story; Paterno was near the end of his coaching days.

Believe this; if Penn State was in the running for a national championship this year it would have been buried deeper than Cam Newton’s college transcript and police report from Florida.

The geneses of this story starts when Paterno was past his mid-seventies in 2003. Some have suggested a man who ran an entire football program should have had the ability to report the incident (which he did); okay, he should have followed up. Suppose he did follow-up; what then if nothing was done? Go to the police; what then if nothing was done? Go to the media; (Now we’re talkin’ – sarcasm) what then if nothing was done? I got it! Take a gun and go kill Jerry Sandusky (more sarcasm). Anything short of going to the media and shooting Sandusky was not good enough (sarcasm).

Joe’s World

Paterno lived in a world of college football for all his life. It’s like a research scientists at a university; he’s consumed by his research, he hears about a professor becoming overly familiar with a student. He reports it and gets back to his research.

Paterno didn’t live in a sheltered academic environment. He lived in a world the academics disdain.

I don’t know exactly how many people were under Paterno; a dozen or so coaches, trainers, managers, recruiters, various advisors, secretaries, and at least one hundred or so immature young men. He was presumably responsible for all their conduct?

Paterno was raised in a time when bad things happened to kids you shake it off and go on. In his day there were no guidance counselors, school physiologists, trauma interventionists, abuse hot-lines, sensationalism obsessed media, publicists, sniveling hand-wringers, political and social liberal sports media, Dr. Drew, Dr, Oz, Dr. Phil or Dr. Feel-goods. You repressed things and moved on. You didn’t whine, complain, or make excuses. You didn’t point fingers, cast doubt, or blame. Not that those things are all bad or good, but that’s the way things were.

WWJD (What Would Joe Do)

I listened to the media excoriate Paterno’s statement on the abuse case as being out of touch and unfeeling. Anyone with a discerning eye, an understanding brain, and a compassionate heart need not know that Paterno was then dying and just a very old man. Shame on all those who rebuffed his words.

Those words did not go first through a media research committee before being read. They were the words from the heart of a confused old man. Until the media parsed them to death they were full of compassion and honesty.

Sports is often used as a metaphor for life. When you lose a game, you congratulate your opponent, correct the mistakes made, hold no grudges, and get ready for the next game.

There is a quality that should shine in all; we should not judge quickly or harshly (let‘s look at the game film first). There is none without defect or sin (sure you missed the final tackle, but there were a whole lot missed before yours).

There will be those who will now eat their words. If done for the right reason than they should not be judged because they judged quickly or harshly – they just made a mistake and welcomed back into the fold.

I don’t think you’ll hear “grudge” and “Joe Paterno” in the same breath. That’s the lesson.

Joe Paterno, 2011, either holding the gate open or closing it: either way, the gatekeeper since 1966.

A Homecoming from Afghanistan in Rode Apple Junction (Part 4) – Surprise Military Homecomings – Enough Already!

Sometimes all a soldier wants when returning home is some privacy and corned beef hash with eggs.

Meanwhile down at the Jittery Goat Cafe; (Continued from last week.)

Zach Saterfield sat at the counter in the Jittery Goat Cafe.

Clem slid a plate of corned beef hash covered with two eggs over easy in front of him.

“Ya know how long I’ve wanted some of your corned beef hash?” Zach said shoving a fork full in his mouth.

Clem was about to answer, but Zach said, “Fifteen months.”

“Has it been that long?” Clem said.

“Three months in New Mexico and a year in Afghanistan,” Zach said.

“It’s sure good to see you home,” Clem said. “I bet that little girl of yours is glad too.”

Zach swallowed. “They don’t come sweeter or more precious.”

“Why aren’t you down at the school now,” Clem said. “Everybody was all hush, hush about the big surprise homecoming; they were going to tape it and show it on the evening news. They didn’t want Darla to find out; you know one of those big surprise coming home things you see all the time on TV.”

“My wife, Darla, her folks, and my folks met at the airport last night.”

“Were the cameras on hand?” Clem said.

“No,” Zach protested. “I ain’t no reality star. There are things that should only be shared with the people you love. The whole world doesn’t have to see ‘em. When something like that happens a person feels like he has to play to the camera or else everybody will be disappointed. It’s like everybody has to out do everybody else; whose got the most tears, the biggest smile, the most surprised look. It’s become a competitive sport. Something like that shouldn’t be overdone or underdone. A TV news crew takes that away.”

There's nothing like an intimate poignant homecoming at center ice with 10,000 hockey fans watching.

“It sure would have been nice to be there and see it,” Clem said.

“Clem, you’ve been a friend of the family before I was born,” Zach said. “But I mean this with no disrespect; it was our moment and not yours and especially not the entire viewing audience.

“No offense takin’, Zach,” Clem said. “I know what you mean. It’s for family.”

“I didn’t join the Army to be treated special,” Zach said. “I joined because there weren’t any jobs. To me the only noble thing I did was provide for my family. That patriotic stuff about ‘fightin’ for your freedoms’ is political talk. We all know better; it’s about oil and the oil-producing region. If it were the Aborigines in Australia causing problems we would have gone over captured a few, killed a few, and converted a few. That is unless we all had an appetite for Kangaroo meat. Then we’d have to make the region democratic for the good of the Kangoroo consuming public.”

Clem shook his head, drew another coffee from the urn and said, “Zach, for years people have been thinking they been eating corned beef hash, but several years ago this guy form Australia comes through and…”

It’s a Simple Cup

Places like this served good coffee in good cups; cups that could split a man's skull or placed under a tire to keep a truck from rolling down hill.

Searching for a Good Cup

Some coffee cups have character. I don’t pick out a coffee cup unless the character is already there or shows signs it can be developed later. It’s kind of like being college recruiter except I’m looking for character.

For years I looked for the perfect cup. This cup would not be found in a boutique with sweet-smelling candles and incense, an upscale gift catalog, or a gourmet coffee shop with five dollar lattes. The cup would not have clever words, thoughts, or Van Gough sketches on it. The cup I wanted would most likely be found at a garage sale or auction. It would be a cup that out lived its usefulness and replaced many times over with sleek, modern, colorful, and clever cups.

The search started in the 80’s. I recall being in Cape Cod, Boston, New York City, and Maine looking for that cup. Finally one day I saw it. Or maybe it spotted me. It was like finding a mutt at the kennel. It was at a garage sale; an older home on Lima’s north side. It was in the middle of twenty or so other cups that were much more interesting and colorful. I picked it up as if it were the Hope Diamond. It cost a nickel.

I took the cup home and scrubbed it. It had some stains within some small chips. No matter how clean it came it lost none of its character.

I took it to work and used it for about ten years. I didn’t like drinking my coffee from the cup that doubled as a lid on my thermos. Coffee taste better, to me, from a ceramic or china cup.

After pouring coffee into the cup I used to think ’where have you been, where did you come from, who drank from you, and what stories can you tell?”

Men with old stories drank from my cup. Men with stories you don't find in fiction or history books. Stories that were lived and not observed.

Where Did the Cup Come From?

When I was in my preteens my Dad frequented the bars on South Main St. in Lima. He’d give me a few dollars (Get lost money) to go grab something to eat at a restaurant. Sometimes I ended up at the Washington Restaurant on South Main.

When you walked into the Washington Restaurant it was like walking back in time thirty or forty years. It had a hard-wood floor worn by time and the boots of working men. The floor boards creaked and cracked with each step like an old man who worked all his life and has a hard time getting out of bed. A lunch counter was on the right wiped clean so many times it had the shine worn away. A row of tables was on the left with round bottom chairs and metal backs. From a tin ceiling hung slow-moving fans. Behind the counter was a grill, a variety of foods in serving pans warmed by steam, and a large stainless steel coffee urn. Next to it; my cup. That’s the kind of place my cup came from.

Old men sat there hovered over a bowl of bean soup, an apple pie, black coffee. Blowing the steam from the coffee and thinking; visions of the past – glories, stories, passions, work, loves, friends, family, lives, deaths.

Working men drank from my cup; men who built locomotives, men who worked oil fields, men who worked in steel foundries, factories, refineries, and railroads. Old men who was at Las Guasimas, Cuba in the Spanish-American War, fought beside the French and British in the trenches of the Argonne, men who may have panned for gold in the Yukon, drilled for oil in South America, or dug the Canal in Panama. Men who stormed the beaches of Normandy, braved the parched landscape of North Africa, and shivered in the cold of the Battle of the Bulge. They blew stumps, cleared fields, dug ditches, plowed, sowed, cultivated, and harvested fields. They shoveled dirt, sand, snow, concrete, stones, grain, and manure. With raw hands they hammered, sawed, chopped and drilled. The best they ever did was run cold water over their hands before having a cup of coffee.

"Ole Number One" There's a lot of stories in that cup; some of them true.

The cup is named, “Ole number one.”

It’s a simple cup, but the stories it has told!

My son and I talk about every morning by phone. (He lives two time zones away.) Every now and then he will ask, “Ya drinking out of ole number one today?” Secretly I think he wants it.

Do You Want to Make Really Great Pizza Sauce?

Ever wonder why all pizza sauces taste the same? This is likely the pizza sauce you get when you order out or eat out. There's more to pizza sauce than a can opener.

It’s the Sauce Stupid

The sauce is where the flavors are.

When you buy a pizza from your favorite place (or cheapest) guaranteed the sauce comes out of a #10 can marked, “Pizza Sauce.” It has all the excitement and individuality of a cold bowl of oatmeal. Further, I can guarantee that your pizza sauce experience is summed up in these words, “Sauce is sauce. If you tasted one sauce you tasted them all.” And that is probably true.

Of all the things that go into a pizza, the sauce should be given the most care, thought, and diligence. Bad sauce will ruin the entire pizza experience no matter what the crust is or how much one tries to hide it under a mountain of toppings. In fact, if you see a lot of toppings it is likely the sauce is nothing more than tomato sauce with a few spices.

The best sauce for pizza is somewhere between the consistency of gravy and brick mortar. In fact, it should be spread with a trowel. Probably if you did DNA testing of the ruins of Rome you might find that pizza sauce was used as mortar.

The sauce is simple (not as simple as opening a can of tomato sauce and pouring it on the crust).

This first step is crucial. If you don’t do it; log off this site and go get yourself a can of tomato sauce – you’re not worthy.

1. Obtain one can (28 oz.) of whole tomatoes: Drain the juice and crush the tomatoes. Crushing the tomatoes by hand is great therapy, much like popping packaging bubbles. The texture of the crushed whole tomatoes must be present!

The sauce should be thick and rich. When it is applied don't allow any of the dough to peek through. Pretend you're hiding a dead body.

2. Add a small can of tomato paste to the crushed tomatoes and blend by stirring. This is the point you determine if it is the thickness of brick mortar or not. If it seems too thick add a couple of tablespoons of the drained juice from the tomatoes. If you don’t know what the consistency of brick mortar is; go find a construction site, bring along your mixture, and compare.

This is not pizza; it's pizza art. It's not worth eating. You must taste and feel the sauce. The sauce isn't a primer coat.

3. Chop enough fresh garlic for a rounded tablespoon and add it to the sauce. Add a teaspoon of oregano, basil, parsley, sugar, and salt to taste. (Don’t over-power with salt, it sometime hides other flavors.) All of these ingredients can be adjusted according to taste, but this is a good place to start. Onions may be added to the sauce. They should be finely chopped and sauteed before adding it to the sauce. If you decide to do this; a half a cup will be ample. Saute them in olive oil or butter.

4. Bring the sauce to a very slow simmer for thirty to sixty minutes. Stir occasionally to make sure it doesn’t burn.

5. Take a mortar trowel (just kidding). Pour the sauce on the pizza dough. Depending on the size of the crust it may be too much. Save it for the next time or patch your foundation.

The crushed tomatoes will make all the difference in the world. If you don’t have the crushed tomatoes it’s like beer without the fiz.

Next week the toppings will be discussed. Then you will be ready for the total pizza experience.

The Day Mom Handed Me over to the Devil

This graffiti is tame compared to mine. I was just a kid ahead of my time.

When twelve I embarrassed my Mom beyond an apology. I told her how sorry I was, but she didn’t even want to talk about it.

It was in grade school. My teacher’s performance was less than stellar. Her job was on the line. As an example ; she humiliated two students in the class who were step brother and sister. It was their parents’ second marriage. In my days in grade school that was very unusual. In fact that was the only two children I knew that came from a home that the parents had been married before. Our teacher said such a situation was a sin. One can only imagine the hurt and embarrassment of the two children. Even to evoke such a pronouncement was certainly not scriptural.

There were other troubling practices. Even the local newspaper ran a story about the discord in our classroom.

The teacher did what she could to humiliate me also. I had a difficult time in reading aloud in front of the class. The words were in my head, but not on my lips. She stood me in front of class several times and made fun of my inability to vocalize the words. She whacked me on the back and said, “There, spit it out!” It is an affliction I embrace (sarcasm) to this day.

When I was very young I stuttered. I over-came it in time, but when reading the words just did not come out.

I acted out in class and received more humiliation and punishment.

One day the teacher tried to curry the favor of the principal who ultimately was the one to make the decision to retain her or not. She had the class (with her help) write a poem about the principal.

One line of the poem written on the black-board was;

“With tresses so white and a heart of gold,

children’s hearts and minds she’ll mold.”

I suggested,

“With tresses so white and a heart of stone,

She’s not only putrid but ugly to the bone.”

Clearly mine was better. The class roared with laughter.

The boom was lowered on me. Before the day was done she found yet another reason to get even. I got the board that day.

I stole some colored chalk from the classroom and after school wrote a number of vulgar and disgusting words on the side of the school about my teacher. I became an urban legend. (This was also the beginning of my love for the written word.)

The next day I was summoned to the principal’s office where my Mom was there already.

I never felt so bad in my life. I humiliated my Mom. She had to sit and listen to my iniquities in detail.

Mom removed me from school for the rest of the day. She scolded me all the way home.

“You are going to attend Sunday school and church every Sunday. I will see to it you won’t miss any,” She said sternly shaking her finger at me. This was the worst walk of my life. “Do you realize what you have done to me. I had to sit there and take it. What possessed you to do something like that?”

I could not give her an answer. I couldn’t explain the shame the teacher was dragging me through and what it was doing to my esteem and emotions.

I was in a puddle of tears by the time we got to the front door. Mom was so hurt. She said we would never be able to live down the disgrace.

Now that I look back, that was the day she gave up on me. She never made me go to Sunday school, church, nor did I have to watch Billy Graham on TV anymore. She handed me over to the devil.

A Homecoming from Afghanistan in Rode Apple Junction (Part 3)

They were already for a story, but there was no story. They couldn't even make one up; how sad. The only one having a private reality moment was the news crew.

In the Future There Will be No Private Moments

(Continued from last week.)

There was a strange look that came over Darla’s face. She nearly smiled. “You must be mistaken; I saw my Daddy last night.”

The TV news reporter said, “Darla, do you think that was your Daddy talking to you from the ‘other side?’

“The ‘other side’ of what?’ Darla said sweetly.

“Darla!” The TV newsman said slowly. “Your Dad is dead. He spoke to you from beyond, from the other world, from heaven.” He then said to the others, “We can edit this whole thing right down to the tears and contorted face.”

“No Daddy’s home,” Darla said. “Mommy and I met him at the airport last night.”

“Your Daddy is dead little girl! Don’t you get it! D-E-A-D, dead!” the TV newsman  said.

“No he’s alive,” Darla said and pulled out her cell phone. “Daddy gave me this yesterday and he just texted me. See,” she said holding the phone to the camera.

“Stop recording,” the TV newsman said. “She is obvious delirious and out of touch with reality. That sounds like a story in itself; how children deny that parents have died in war.”

“But he’s alive,” Darla insisted.

“Look ya little emotionless social-path give me some tears,” the TV newsman said. “Or I’ll give ya somethin’ to cry about.”

The TV newsman turned to Mrs. Gladstone. “You’re teaching religion in school. I know you are. Where would she get such a far-fetched idea?” He turned to the cameraman. “Let’s get this.” He held the microphone to the face of Mrs. Gladstone. “Have you been teaching your children religion in class; things like the after-life, heaven, hell, God, Jesus, and Tim Tebow?”

“Sir, this is hardly the time or place,” Mrs. Gladstone said.

The TV reporter stuck his face in front of the camera, “As you can see third grade teacher at Rode Apple Junction, Mrs. Gladstone, refused to answer allegations about teaching religion and stuff. She would neither confirm or deny them. This reporter will stay on this story; we can’t have a lunatic fundamentalists conservative teaching our kids about heaven and stuff, that kind of stuff is best left to liberal atheists.” He pointed to the cameraman and said, “We can’t get the social-path girl to cry so let’s go with what we got on Mrs. Gladstone.”

As the TV newsman walked out of the school he said to the cameraman, “We got to get one of those private homecoming stories from somewhere; everybody’s doing them.”

“Maybe it should remain private,” the cameraman said.

“Are you kidding me,” the TV newsman said. “Nothing’s private.”

Meanwhile down at the Jittery Goat Cafe;

(Next week see what happened at the Jittery Goat Cafe.)

Who Wants a Sharp Butter Knife?

Nobody wants a ballet dancer as an offensive tackle. Nor would you want an offensive tackle in tights (Strike that from your mental imagery, it’s too much to bear.) You got to have the right person for the right job; that takes skill and discernment.

Every knife known to man must be sharp, except the butter knife.

Here’s why you don’t want a sharp butter knife; If you’re retrieving the butter from a tub container it is far too sharp and will not allow the butter to curl up on the knife. It slices right through the butter leaving nothing on the knife (every serial knife slasher knows this already). Whereas (lawyer talk) if one uses a dull butter knife a large glob of butter accumulates on the knife, thus you have a 4 to 1 ratio of butter to bread (which is about right; 4 ounces of butter and a 1 ounce slice of bread).

Think too of the dangers avoided by not using a sharp knife to spread butter on the bread. The slightest distraction and you go right through the bread and into your hand. I wonder how many emergency room visits are caused that way: “Doctor Kelly, Doctor Kelly, emergency room, stat! Another sharp butter knife idiot.”

This can go on; just try peanut butter with a sharp knife or jelly. You will never get enough peanut butter on a sharp knife to spread on a crouton let alone a slice of bread. When it comes to jelly it’s like trying to eat Jello with chop sticks.

So it’s kind of a philosophy for life; Don’t always reach for the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Here’s a shirt to go with the philosophy;

Link to shirt.

It's not only a philosophy, it's a way of life.

What I Taught Bill Gates About Making Pizza Dough

From this simple dough you can go in many directions.

Years ago I went into a local pizza joint to pick up a pizza. The owner was there and making the pizzas. He asked me how I liked them. When the owner asks that question it should be with the idea that he’s not fishing for a compliment, (I should have played to his insecurities) but he wants an opinion; which opinion if taken to heart will ultimately help his business.

“You want the truth, don’t you?” I said. (You can’t handle the truth!)

“Sure,” he said.

“I think you should save the trouble of buying the crusts and just use the boxes.”

I went on to tell him that the only difference between his crust and the guy down the street is the oven it’s baked in. They were purchased from the same distributor. I suggested he make his own dough.

“That would take too much time,” he said. “And I can buy the shells cheaper than I can make them.”

I couldn’t argue with that sort of entrepreneurial spirit (sarcasm).

The point is if you take the time to perfect something better, even at a higher cost, people will recognize it in time and thus attract a customer rather than a person looking for a cheap deal.

The most often hear criticism about pizza is, “I don’t like their crust.” Often the crust is opinion; what one person likes another doesn’t, thus pizza places offer a variety.

Several years ago I made about twenty pizzas for a group. I didn’t have the time or facilities to make the crust. I bought them. I didn’t like doing it, but I did. It was at Gordon Foods. The crust was excellent; beyond what I expected.

Good crust can be purchased, but if you are looking for individuality and don’t want to risk ending up with a bad crust, make your own.

In the late 60′s I made pizza at the mess hall several times. The crust was unbelievably good. (Re-enlistments spiked)

I saw there was little difference between bread dough, dinner roll dough, doughnut dough, and pizza dough.

If you like a thin crust, roll out the dough till its paper then. That is a starting point. If you want it thicker you will have to experiment, but about the thickness of a quarter or two is good.

Here are some links to some excellent recipes for dough.

http://www.cooks.com/rec/view/0,164,158180-227203,00.html

http://www.cooks.com/rec/doc/0,164,158180-226203,00.html

With each of these recipes an egg or two can be added. The reason is that the dough will be fluffier and lighter; if that’s what you want. If you do add the eggs sprinkle in enough flour (a table-spoon or two) to achieve the right consistency before the egg or eggs were added.

Remember this makes good rolls, bread, and doughnuts (not to mention food fights).

What happened to the guy who I gave his opinion of his pizza? Well, he was not pleased. Within a year all his pizza places shut down.

But I remember his threatening words when I left his place: “I’m working on a technology that you will never be able to understand and drive you crazy. You won’t be able to live without it. You will be at my mercy.”

“Sure Bill, what will you call it, Gates Technologies? I’ll give you some advice. Roll your dough micro thin and make it soft. Remember; micro and soft.”

Next week we talk about the sauce.