My mom has never been all that domestic. She can clean like a madwoman, but when it comes to the kitchen, not quite her forte. Consequently, my dad has done nearly all of the cooking in my household. Particularly in my younger years, my Dad and I shared meals together all the time. My mom was in nursing school, with an hour commute back and forth from Jackson to Kalamazoo daily. Over the years our meals have evolved from the stages of his college life, to mine. One such meal that has stuck with me, was homemade pizza. By homemade I of course mean a pre-made crust and the addition of our favorite toppings. This was my favorite of all the meals we shared because it was one that I could help with. I am in no way, shape, or form a cook, but when it comes to pizza, I can sure spread a mean can of store-ready sauce!
When I couldn’t make it home to again share this cooking experience with my Dad, I thought hard about whom I could share my meal with. The decision was actually very easy though. Jamie. Jamie is one of my oldest friends at K, and ever so deserving of a gift from a friend she has given so much to.
The very first time Jamie and I left campus together, I was having a rough day and she offered to take me shoe shopping. Just weeks into our friendship and she already knew how to cure my negativity, I should have known then. I of course found a pair of boots I would have died for in my fragile, impulsive state, but was without a check from work until the following day. Even after wasting a homework filled evening to help out a friend, money already spent on me in gas, she was still willing to lend me $100 to buy a pair of boots I didn’t need. The trust and faith she has in people amazes me still today. Always there in a bind and always willing to give more than she should, I was happy to choose her to cook with.
Jamie is remarkably like a mom away from mom, or in my case, a dad away from dad! Whom else could I depend on to have a pizza pan tucked away in their dorm? She knows all of the answers to the tedious questions that I so often have asked of my father. She knows things like whether the milk really expires on the day it says on the carton, or how to cure a stomach ache. She is more domestic at nineteen than I believe I will be at forty. (She keeps spices where I house my coffee mugs, and pots and pans where my jeans rest.) Making a pizza was now an even better decision than before; she could help me make it - and God knows I needed help.
To begin our cooking adventure, Jamie and I took a trip to the friendly, neighborhood Meijer. All of the ingredients we needed were housed within three isles of one another, a quick and easy trip, or it should have been. After a grueling afternoon searching for the lovely and scatterbrained Allison, one of our roommates, in Kalamazoo’s Crossroads Mall, we were not looking forward to spending time in yet another crowded superstore where our phone-less friend could wander off again.
Although we had just talked extensively in class about the many horrors of processed foods, at this venture in my non-working college life, I was unwilling to splurge for the “good stuff.” I also had in mind the pizza of my childhood, a time in which my parents were still relatively poor and just finishing their college educations. The combination of simply not knowing better and a budget resulted in processed pepperoni, cheese, and canned sauce and veggies. To top off the list of unhealthy ingredients, we often chose a ready-to-bake crust that required little to no preparation, save the addition of our favorite toppings.
Lucky for me, pizza ingredients such as crust, sauce, and pepperoni are now conveniently shelved in one “pizza section.” The most challenging part of the entire Meijer process was finding canned mushrooms. Canned mushrooms you ask? Again with the small budget, my father would splurge on a few cans of the watery goods so that we could eat the leftovers from the bottom of the can with a fork. I had the intent of recreating this experience with Jamie, but found that I did have boundaries after reading “The Omnivore’s Dilemma.” Cooked, yes, uncooked, no.
The following day it was time to cook. In addition to the pizza, I served Ben & Jerry’s half baked ice cream as well as chips and salsa as appetizers. Taking cues from the three step instructions on the back of the crust packaging, we got to work.
First, I spread canola oil on the crust as an inexpensive substitute for olive oil. I then poured roughly half a jar of traditional Pizza Quick Ragu over the surface of the crust and spread it evenly with a spoon. Next came the spreading of the whole package of mozzarella cheese. Notice I’ve used the word “I” twice now, and it was at the cheese stage that Jamie finally protested that she had been recruited to help, not watch! So, we then went on to cover the entire pizza with cheese as well as slices of pepperoni. At this point our pizza was covered from crust to crust in multiple spirals of red - yum. Jamie, holding different views on canned mushrooms, opted out of placing them on her half. I however, covered the obnoxious amount of pepperoni with an obnoxious amount of mushrooms (consistency)! Last, but not least, we used half a jar of banana peppers each to top the pizza off.
Though the instructions on the ready-to-bake crust said our “perfect” pizza would be ready in 7 - 10 minutes, with the extreme weight we had added, the pizza took well over 30 minutes to cook. The juice from the banana peppers and canned mushrooms spilled over the sides as it baked, leaving a far from perfect, sufficiently black outer crust. Jamie had tried to prevent the blackness, but I insisted time and time again that it couldn’t possibly be ready, and this is why we are told from a young age to listen to Momma...
Our pizza was without a doubt trash worthy, but still we ate it. We laughed as with each bite another five mushrooms fell off onto the pan from which we ate. We giggled as we bit into the center where the cheese was only lukewarm. These far from subtle imperfections emulate our friendship though. Jamie and I are raw and honest, but can laugh and sing and dance in the face of hardships as well. So our pizza burned or I think her goodwill sweater is awful. We went to our favorite breakfast spot the next day and she hated the pants I was wearing. This is how it goes, and let me tell you, these inconsistencies creates perfection.
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