I hardly ever bother with pizza, (unless I'm in Italy).
It's usually a soggy-cardboard, gloopy offence to food. Not to mention the ridiculous toppings on offer these days. In a fake Italian chain restaurant in Drury Lane one drunken night I felt compelled to order a pizza "peking duck". What the fuck?
However, I feel myself becoming as obsessed with making home-made pizza as I was briefly with sourdough bread. I'm currently at the ladybird book stage of hopelessness, but they're quite edible the next day cold, and things can only improve once I work out how to get the pizza on the bakestone...
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About Me
- Gary
- In my twenties I was a failed poet. In my thirties I wrote a book on gambling which was very nearly published. In my forties I wrote a small book about moving from London to Shropshire, which remains unpublished. Into my fifties and the quest continues...
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