who needs love? all you need is homemade pizza

I've searched long and hard for the best way to throw an authentic dinner party. Not the kind where your placecard is at the door, and you spend the evening sitting next to and across from the same people. The boisterous kind. The kind of dinner party that actually feels like a party.

Last night, after many a morning spent making dough. After the yeast was back in the cupboard. After the torte (feeling much like a bride trying on wedding dresses) had been placed upon its pedestal. After the Mise. After the herbs had been plucked from their stems. There was a party.

I battled with the dough. It flanked right. I flanked left. It tore, and I patched. It stretched--its gluten relaxed from kneading--and I tried to stop it from stretching down to the floor. I held it with my knuckles, and it covered them and formed over them. Eventually, it yielded to my force and collapsed upon the pan in shape of island nations. Madagascar (sans Seyshells as Marietta noted). Iceland. Japan. Jay Leno (not a country-but a distinct shape). They were island nations ready to be populated.



Caramel-colored onions. Baby spinach flecked with garlic. Mushrooms-glistening with butter and thyme. Coins of zucchini. Crispy salty smokey pancetta. Creamy, gluttonous goat cheese. crumbled blue-veined Stilton. paper thin sliced pears. oily pesto. chapters and volumes of mozzarella.

As the pizzas emerged from the oven, they brought people together. Two people reaching for a slice at the same time. revealing how the stilton, pears and walnuts felt in their mouth. pouring a glass. sharing a story and a slice.