Making Pizza, According to Girl

Making pizza according to Girl: Drizzled in soft white melted mozzarella cheese, dripping with pepperoni grease, buried in fresh mushrooms, onions and jalapenos with a sprinkle of oregano. Thought I died and went to heaven every time our oven began to bake the gourmet feast each Friday night.


It did not begin that way. Back in the Midwest (where we both grew up) we were not experienced in the culinary arts. Generally speaking, if something did not come out of a can or box, we would not know what to do with it. That’s why we looked first to Chef Boyardee Pizza kits, then gradually evolved our pizza baking to encompass our additions.

The small Italian grocery store on Myrtle Avenue was run by a husband and wife team. He was graying, in his fifties, plump, mustached, and always wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses. He was very knowledgeable on cheese and wine choices. She ran the register.

When we would go into the store, we would first spot him in his long white apron. It looked to be cleaned and pressed every morning. His wife was short, thin, her brown hair (which also had streaks of gray) was always pulled back in a bun. She had beautiful brown eyes that bore a kind of sadness. I think it was because they had no children. The little shop was their life. The customers were their family. They were interested in each person who came into the store and got to know each of us by name.

So, after work, I stopped in to see them. The wooden door with the brass bell announced my entrance. I was interested in creating a genuine, authentic, Italian style pizza. I mentioned that to Mrs. Colombo and her countenance immediately changed to that of an excited little mama. She yelled out, "Hey Giuseppe, Evie’s making pizza for Mike tonight and wants some help." He was busy in the back, unpacking some Italian wines but, when she called out, he immediately came hustling through the small doorway from the back stock room smiling.

Together we went through the ingredients I would need to buy. Then we discussed the preparation of the crust, the process of yeast in the dough that would make it rise, the chopping of the onions and mushrooms. I was not totally oblivious to the workings of the kitchen, but I graciously let them guide me. They were so excited about the big night. They pointed out the pepperoni; that it was in a cooler with many other types of sausages. They put a medium-sized portion in my bag with the other items I was purchasing.

One of the reasons I had wanted help was the cheese. Normally, we had just sprinkled a bit of parmesan from the box and called it good. This time my mission was to find the white bubbly, drippy, stringy cheese that usually topped restaurant pizzas. That’s the cheese I wanted to crown our creation this special night.

The Columbos took me over to the other end of the shop, to the cheese cooler. Their large cheese selection was incredible. I had never heard of most of them. There were various types of American cheeses, Swiss, French, and Italian. There was cheese made from the milk of goats, cows and sheep. Some were hard, and some soft, some yellow, and some white. Some cheeses had holes, some did not. This Velveeta-raised girl definitely needed help.

"Mozzarella," she said. "That’s what you really need to make pizza." It is the whitest, softest, wettest cheese. It would be the piece de resistance.

And so it began. Our Friday night tradition. "Salud" to the Columbos.

An old Italian toast: "May your life be like good wine, tasty, sharp, and clear. And like good wine, may it improve with every passing year. Salud!"