cooking – Bifocals and Barbells

What A Pizza Work

I don’t know if you know, but I went to Europe. Every time I mention it I still feel like I’m play-acting as someone who is a lot cooler than I really am. But it actually happened. The food was great enough that I questioned my culinary existence. Before I even unpacked my backpack, I googled cooking classes in Redding. Chef Pam was the first entry. Chef Pam was having pizza night in few weeks. Non-Chef Crystal immediately signed up.

True cooking is a culture unto itself. A culture to I am as much a tourist as I am when visiting countries abroad.

Having never done anything like this before, I had no idea what to expect. But there I awkwardly meandered into the Sizzle Kitchen after work yesterday to see what’s up. I was worried about admitting at 54 that I don’t cook great.

Initially I cursed myself for being comfortable enough to just wander in to a situation where I was a stranger who was 3^rd wheeling on a date night for about 7 couples. But, Chef Pam knows recipes for social success too. With a plate of nosh and some gentle nudge, I was in chat with some great folks.

The industrial kitchen allows for all the folks to get in the middle of the dirty work. More self-cursing as tasks were assigned. I wondered if everyone else had figured out kitchen things that I never had and steered clear of volunteering. But as the million item prep went on, it was comforting to see that everyone was there to learn.

The tattooed chef would say something like “do we all know that we don’t put the basil on the pizza until after it’s out of the oven?” When someone would say, “I had no idea” I was washed in relief. I had a moment of “whew!” because the playing field was more level than I thought.

I learned about ingredients, how to choose proper eggplants, what an eggplant tastes like, how to good blackberry and ricotta can be on a pizza, how to properly sauté, and the importance of adding ingredients in specific orders. There were other things that YouTube videos about how to make Napoli style pizza at home don’t show you such as, if you know yeast you don’t need a proof run or that instead of buying dough raising boxes off amazon you can use a Ziploc bag with oil. Maybe those things are common knowledge to everyone, but they weren’t to me.

I also learned that Chef Pam is in the market for a man. A smart one who likes to eat well would sign up immediately. A 4 pack of 30 ish year olds suggested she try their gym at 9 am. Whomever is snagged doesn’t need to have a bike for her to ride on the back of. She’s got her own chopper. Obviously.

I got over myself about being nervous and got my hands dirty making a pizza Bianca while I chatted with people I would have never met otherwise while we snacked on some truly fantastic grub that we’d all built together at Chef Pam’s unquestionable direction.

The aftermath of food prep was it’s own kind of awesome. Whoever Jen is doesn’t allow you to help clean up. “You’ll mess with my kitchen feng shui, but thanks.” Arms are stacked with plates to take home. If you’re thinking it’s an option to take some, you’re wrong. Folks bask in the aftermath of deliciousness and talk about what’s coming next month. It’s Sicilian street food. Chef Pam hugs everyone goodbye like they’re family leaving on a long trip. Also not offered so much as an option, but welcomed.

So with my hands full of recipes and leftovers, and my face full of cheesy grin; I headed out feeling silly that I’d been nervous to be there and excited to go again.

Thanks for reading!

The Food!!!

You know that thing where the food server comes to your table (typically when you’ve just taken a full bite) and asks how your meal is?

They don’t do that in Italy, Spain, and Portugal.

And I’ve decided it’s because; they know.

Your meal is amazing. They don’t need your opinion on it to gel that fact for them.

Everybody tried to prep me for what I would experience food wise on our trip. Despite their best efforts, I was not at all ready.

I would say that the two weeks spoiled me, but honestly it was set in stone on day one.

We got up early in Madrid and made our way to the train station for our 4 hour train ride to the start of our pilgrimage walk. It had been a long day of travel from little ol’ Cottonwood the day before and we were hungry. A kiosk in the train station was selling something I’d never tried before (but have now eaten a million times since) Napolitana and coffee for $1.50. Napolitana is a breakfast pastry with chocolate. And the random coffee was sincerely better than any I’d had before.

In a train station kiosk.

Before instantly deleting my Dutch Bros app, I tried the vending machine coffee to see if maybe I was just caffine depraved and the coffee wasn’t that different. The vending machine coffee was also mind blowing!

The whole two weeks was one culinary life altering experience after another. There was not a bad meal anywhere; whether it was out of the grocery store cold case or in a picturequse side walk café, every single bit of it was amazing.

The only food pitfall was the Roman incident, where to be fair, I share some blame.

The sun seems hotter in Rome, and that should be considered when slowly eating creamy meals outside. The bulk of my carbonara dish was perfect. And though the last few bites seemed “off,” I persisted. Yadda yadda yadda, the next few hours of my life were scary. 35 million people visit Rome annually. And as mentioned previously, no bathrooms.

All I could imagine was me violently throwing up in some corner of historical significance and being an instant viral social media mockery. Instead, I was cussed in more languages that I could decipher as a pushed my way past 20 people to get in a restroom in McDonald’s. I felt horrible for doing so, but I realized I was going to negatively impact their day in one way or another and this seemed slightly less traumatizing for them all.

But aside from that, the foods and coffees were so good it was perplexing. I ate every single thing I could. One day I had pistachio icecream in a surreal “food court” one floor above hardware in a department store. Then after maybe 30 minutes of meandering, I had a serving of fresh churros and dipping chocolate. This may surprise you, but none of that is on my food plan.

I have no ragrets (not even one letter). But there has been some aftermath.

“Oh, are you that guy now?” the gravely voice of Dirty asks as I’m forcing he and Gus to participate in my effort at Neapolitan pizza. “Yes. Yes, I am” I say as I trim basil off of the first basil plant I’ve ever owned.

Don’t get me wrong. I can feed people. The fact that the boys made it to adulthood are proof of that. But actually cooking is something different. Food tours reaffirms that.

The day we got back, I looked for a cooking class in town. It has to be more than luck that I immediately found one very close to work that is “of traditional Neapolitan and Sicilian cooking.” I’m signed up. Obviously.

I’ve also lost all manners in my search for how to resolve my coffee grief. So far as to ask some poor woman who let slip she’d lived in Italy for 5 years how much she spent on coffee maker. I don’t know much about social graces, but I’m pretty sure that’s a bad thing to do.

I hear the longing for food that good will last. I’m kind of hoping it won’t since so far I’m in to this with a new Kitchen Aid and several bonus pounds. And I’m saddened that I hadn’t been there to taste all the food goodness sooner. But we’ll see where all this goes.

In the meantime, if you want to help prevent me from poor manners in social settings, please share with me the ways you make “some serious gourmet shit” in the way of coffee.

Thanks for reading! Go to Italy/Spain/Portugal!