Pizza Fun

Yesterday Corey and I had our first run at a homemade pizza. I have to say that it turned out pretty okay and we are already talking about what to tweak for the next time, besides the aid of a pizza peel. If you have any pizza secrets please share.

I also think I'll try a new technique from one of our favorite children's books- it will be a different take on pizza but I can't wait to get it to my table. We're going to start with one white, doughy tummy freshly oiled, baby oil that is. For toppings I'd like a button nose, cute brown eyes set off by already prominent eyebrows, chubby cheeks, and a tiny mole on the left jamb. When my pizza is finished I'm going to devour it with kisses.

This is one of my favorite book ideas for cold, rainy days (which in Boston go Nov-May).
When Pete feels miserable because rain makes it impossible to play ball outdoors, his father finds a fun indoor game to play with his son. Pete's father starts kneading the dough. Next, some oil is generously applied. (Its really water.) And then some tomatoes. (They're really checkers.) When the dough gets tickled, it laughs like crazy.

The New York Times online has this great review of the book:

he Pete in ''Pete's a Pizza'' presents himself as the classic child in a funk, seriously sulky because rain has spoiled his chance to go out and play with friends. Confronted with such an inconsolable child, the typical parent might logically decide to

A) rush to Penelope Leach and look up clinical depression;
B) rush to the mall for the latest Sony Play Station;
C) rush to refill Pete's Ritalin prescription;
D) rush to the Cineplex to catch the latest Bruce Willis catastrophe flick;
E) relax and make the kid into a pizza.

While William Steig never directly addresses or speaks ill of the first four well-used options in American parenting, he strongly recommends the pizza alternative. Helpfully, he illustrates his technique with simple drawings that make busy parents want to put down their I.B.M. Think Pads and pick up a child. In Steig's drawings, Pete's bemused parents look to be about 75 years old, which is, perhaps, why they don't take the youngster's foul mood seriously. Instead, they scoop up the miserable Pete, plunk him down on the kitchen table like a ball of dough, knead him, twirl him in the air, stretch him out and then start sprinkling on the toppings, like oil (water), flour (talcum powder) and tomatoes (red checkers). By the time the pizza is baked on the couch and ready to slice, it's laughing and running away. Like the thunderstorm outside, Pete's dark cloud disappears.