I am virtually famous for being difficult in my endeavors. So, when I make pizza, I make Chicago Style! First, I season one pound of free range, local chicken and pork to make my own sausage. The remainder of the mixture that’s not used in the ‘Za goes in with eggs the next few days. That takes a day to do, so I make the crust the night before to let set and get a good rise out of it. To do so, I argue with it for hours and read Facebook political posts to it as well as #politics on Twitter. Seems to always make it almost rise up to kill me, but I beat it back with episodes of Breaking Bad.
The NEXT NEXT day, I am ready to make a pizza. Yes, it takes 72 hours. Wait, what? Where’s day two? I think you mean where’s day one. Day one is Monday. I drink Monday. A lot. That’s the day I buy stuff and say I’ll make pizza. Then I get drunk and decide that Tuesday is a better day to put meat in a grinder. It’s a mechanical thing.
Now, onto the pictures. My crust is a simple mix of sawdust and misery, with some floor flour and things the cats leave me at night, plus beer leavings from the bottles I couldn’t quite finish the night before. Oh, and corn meal to piss off the purists.
I put the punched out dough into a deep dish, because I fucking hate crackers being used for pizza, and got to working.
Here’s the crust with home made sausage and store bought Mozzarella cheese. If you’re making the crust, sauce and sausage, why store bought cheese you ask? Because I SUCK AT MAKING CHEESE AND IT HURTS MY FEELINGS. Thanks for asking.
I had some left over dough and remembered Pizza Hut’s Priazzo was great when it was out, so I rolled out another thin layer.
Dough is yummy, more dough is more yummy, right? Next up was the sauce. Farmed and raised from the dumpsters of the finest produce places around, the trash-ripened tomatoes are crushed out of season and mixed with a proprietary blend of herbs (read: I drunkenly threw a bunch of things on a shelf into a bowl) then sat on the counter. Yep. Sat. Not cooked, not roasted, not boiled, microwaved or otherwise cooked. That happens when you cook the pizza itself, so why bother?
Okay. I was told by many people that my posts are too long, so I’ll continue this pizza ridden saga later. In parts two and three I’ll detail exactly why everything I like sucks and everything you like rules then point out a lot of irony. Or just talk about beer and pizza. Haven’t decided yet.