The wife first made pizza at home a few years ago. I'd gone to then-unmarried T.'s home to watch a game.
"What did you guys eat?," the wife asked when I came back.
"T. had made pizza," I replied.
"If T. can make pizza," snarked the wife, "then I should be able to do it too." And so she did. But we haven't been making pizza from scratch after that -- Papa Murphy's is down the street and they sell pretty fresh, quite good pizzas.
On Sunday, we wanted to try out a new griddle pan and so we decided to make pizza. What went in: our house blend of whole wheat and all-purpose flour, bell peppers, mushrooms and spinach with pepper-jack cheese. Also sphagetti sauce I'd made and frozen last year in a bid to use up the garden basil.
Sichuan tofu and onion soup.
"Pizza," she said in a tone of voice that indicated that this was the stupidest question that she'd heard in the four years she's been on this earth. And you know what ... it probably was.