Pizza, pizza, pizza

This post is also available in: Italiano

I like pizza a lot.

Since I have teeth, my mother cuts it into small pieces and I feel that delicious taste of tomato and that white, soft and sweet thing that adults call mozzarella.

Dad usually takes the pizza home in large cardboard boxes.

The Italian nonna, during the time we were at her house, proposed to my mother to make pizza at home.

Nonna said: little one, come to the kitchen and we’ll make pizza. I immediately went up to the tower that my father bought so that I could work with my nonna in the kitchen.

I like being in the kitchen with her because she lets me try to do things, her only concern is that I burn myself and therefore she constantly says when I’m near the stove “be careful, it burns” she repeats it many times as if I don’t understand. I, on the other hand, understand what it means and only once did I put my hand on a stove that had just been turned off and I felt a very strong burning. I immediately cried, nonna and mom got scared and put my hand under cold water and put ice. The ice bothered me so much because it also burns on the skin. Naturally I cried but after a while I felt better and no signs were visible on my fingers.

Returning to the pizza, working that white, soft dough, pulling it, squashing it, beating it, using the rolling pin was fun. I also liked tossing the pieces of mozzarella while my grandmother said: “slowly, slowly”. I, on the other hand, enjoyed throwing it hard and quickly. It was nice to see the red of the tomato splashing here and there under the tossed piece of mozzarella.

We made a margherita pizza because it’s the only one mom lets me eat, even though I’d like to try the ones they eat that have so many colorful ingredients on them.

I understood that to make pizza you need to put in a little effort and be patient.

 You have to “mistreat” the dough with all the strength you have to beat it, pull it, fold it. Then it is necessary to let it rest in the heat with a cloth over it as if it were sleeping.

While it’s there in the warmth it grows and becomes bigger and softer. It seemed magical to me.

I helped roll out the dough and put it on the griddle. While cooking, the oven was very hot and every now and then I did like my grandmother, stooping down to see it change color from the glass of the oven. Finally, the pizza was ready.

I wanted to eat it right away but you had to wait for it to be cut into small pieces for me and lose that heat that makes your mouth burn.

When I finally got to taste it I was happy.


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