diflucan and constipation

Pizza Made Difficult, pt.2

Have I mentioned lately that I have no patience? Well, I don’t. So let’s get to posting pictures and then we can laugh at them. Going back to the pizza theme, here’s what I did next to make a delicious pizza the most exhausting thing you can do with your time.

Here I add the force carbonated reverse pollination green peppers that I imported from the freezer section of the ghetto Win-Dixie. I had to invent an ice chamber that kept things cooked at freezing temperatures just to take them home.

I just don’t know where to start on Obamacare. Really, these poor onions only wanted to be tasty, but they were destined to treat wounds on soldiers off fighting the war on making love not war. I rescued them, butchered them and put them on a pizza.

OKAY, SO I MAY HAVE BEEN DRINKING A WEE BIT WHEN I MADE THIS PIZZA! But it was a seasonal beer, a summer shandy. At a low ABV, I could drink 50 of them. And did. Of course thanks to the industry’s ridiculous “first to market” standard, I drank this seasonal in January.

First round of pepperoni. I prefer the turkey pepperoni because if I made my own we’d be here until the next season of summer beers, and everyone knows that’s January 12th to the 13th. We don’t have time for that, so it’s turkey pepperoni. You can really taste the suffering!

So, yeah…the second layer of crust because I usually do a low carb, high protein and moderate fat diet. So when I carb, I REALLY carb. This dough has spent two hours in an induction loaded, perspective blind, oxygen free fart chamber. All of which makes no sense as soon as it is pulled out and hits oxygen again. But it looked cool on Williams Sonoma so I got it.

I once killed a man for suggesting that I had too much cheese on my PB&J sandwich because there’s no such thing ever as too much cheese. So my pizza has at least 2 lbs of mozzarella on it. How’d I kill the guy? Fed him cheese until his arteries collapsed and his heart gave out. I see no corollary. Or carotid for that matter.

Children jump up and down all the time in the hopes that they can suddenly fly. This is because they are stupid and their parents are inept. Thus, more pepperoni.

Do I REALLY have to tell you what’s going on in this picture? I mean, can’t you open your third eye, balance your chakra from any parallel fourth underpinning of Judah’s inherited soulistic infestation of Happenstanding™ and just, fucking, believe? IS it so hard to just accept that I can string a bunch on nonsense words together and you’ll have no recourse but to believe that I am more enlightened than you? Oh, this is when you put sauce on a real pizza.

Bake the ever loving CRAP out of that pizza for 45 minutes, don’t let it cool, just tear off a slice and burn the hell out of your mouth. Because real men don’t wait for things to be perfect before they do stuff, they just do stuff and cry when no one is looking. Then they laugh about it later and act tough.

Hope it was worth the wait! That’s how I make a pizza, and no…you can’t have any as this is from about two months ago and the ‘Za is but a fond memory now. Make your own, it’s difficultly easy!

Pizza made difficult

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.