While some people peep into their friends’ medicine cabinets to develop an overgeneralized conclusion of the owners’ character, I peep into their freezers. When we first started dating, Longer Hollow Legs had a steady supply of frozen pizzas occupying the frosty depths of his ice box. How this is a reflection of his psyche I do not know, but I do know about me – that I like to make things hard for myself and thrive off self-righteous DIY-ness. Hence I said, “No more store-bought pizzas” and now I make giant batches of our own pizza to freeze.
“It’s not that hard,” chirped the sweaty, beet-red aproned woman-child with Hollow Legs, “It’s just a matter of organization.”
Outside of the questionable anatomy (and reference to myself in the third person), I really do think that she/I am right. Handling dough is one of life’s secret joys, and nothing helps you fall asleep faster than the smug satisfaction of knowing exactly what went into your pizza combined with heavy carbo-loading and cheese consumption.
I use a simple focaccia recipe (found here) as the pizza dough base, and keep the toppings pretty simple: tomato sauce, mushrooms, old cheddar. Sometimes I’ll also scatter pickled artichokes, a few blobs of ricotta and a handful of baby spinach over top as well, if I feel like getting Really Fancy. Then we gobble one back for dinner, and save the rest for another day.