Summers are short in the great white north, and summer cottage weekends seem even shorter. We’ve taken to leaving the cottage well after Sunday dinner, emphasizing our reluctance to return home and to our regular Monday to Fridays. I felt particularly justified in leaving late last weekend since hockey try-outs delayed my arrival to tranquility until Saturday afternoon.
So the Sunday dinner menu this past weekend called for barbeque pizza. If you have never tried it, it’s well worth the extra time and effort – akin to pizza lover’s paradise. Unless of course you’ve already invested the time to create build your own backyard pizza oven. In which case, you can stop reading now. The freshly rolled pizza dough must first be brushed with olive oil and grilled before it is ‘topped’, and then quickly re-grilled to heat through and melt the cheese.
This past weekend my boys created an Epic BBQ Pizza of all Pizzas. Any Meat Lovers Pizza out there would have shriveled up in disgrace at the site of this impressive pie. As every leftover meat in the frig made it’s way to the pizza’s top, I felt the need to point out to our guests that a) we do not own a portable defibrillator, and b) the nearest hospital was 30 minutes away. I confirmed we were not filming the next episode of Man vs Food but asked that they all please complete this short waiver anyway.
Though “Epic” was a good moniker for the meal, “everything-AND-the-kitchen-sink” was probably more suitable. One of the boys yelled out, “needs more bacon strips!” to which I replied, “Seriously, there really are no more bacon strips”. Not sure if that was a look of disappointment on his face or a calculated thought as to where exactly be the nearest slaughterhouse. As I crumbled a little goat cheese over my scattered leftover chopped fresh tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, zucchini, my other son quipped, “Green stuff can’t be showing; you gotta cover it with more cheese” as if pointing out some code of honour from the homemade pizza trenches.
I’m reasonably certain that had I took a slice of their pizza, I would not be here to tell the story. Suffice to say, there were no leftovers from their batch, and they showed no interest in my kitchen handiwork. I scolded them and preached that they’d soon pay for their trans-fatty transgressions, but no, their young teenage iron-guts triumphed … and begged for more a little while later.
Oh to be young….