We’re having pizza for lunch at our daughter’s house. She says she’s going to do it on the grill.
Not what I expected.
My wife and I often buy a pizza dough at the Italian market when we go for goodies. We have one in the freezer right now. Thaw it, roll it, mark it with a P. Then put it in the oven, heated to 500F. Our preference is a white-pizza-foccaccia, with olive oil and sea salt and rosemary. Good for sandwiches layered with aforementioned goodies.
Our daughter makes her own dough, makes a white-pizza-focaccia called spianata in my wife’s region. And hers is a thing of beauty, that spianata. Today we’re having some pizza to celebrate her six-year-old’s birthday. That means sauce and cheese. We’ll be putting the pizza back on the focaccia. Then, this curve ball.
“I’m going to do it on the grill.”
“It’s hot,” she says. “Close the lid, it’s an oven.”
“If you say so.”
She says so. And that’s what she does.
It’s an outdoor event then: rolling the dough outside, starting it on the grill, then saucing it, and cheesing it. For the adults, a pizza with tomato (think puree, not that over-seasoned glop from a can), which she offloads from the grill, then dresses with tuna, red onion, parsley, and capers. And isn’t it wine o’clock? It most certainly is.
Four adults, two kids. Four pizzas. The plan was to graze on the pizza, then have a real lunch. But the pizzas totalled us.
Pizza on the grill. Why not?