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The Creating of Irish Pizza
Tonight I made dinner. This is nothing exceptional, as we are quite normal and do eat dinner every night, and most often, I am the one who makes it. The unique thing came in the making thereof.
We were having pizza, but not the elaborate kind that takes me two hours. Okay, so I let it get a little out of hand sometimes, but homemade pizza is only good when it is completely gourmet. Or perhaps I'm just picky. But no, this was the very-cheating kind of pizza, where you slice loaves of french bread in half from one end to the other and put all of the fixin's on from there. We are talking so easy that Julia Child would blush to see her cookbook on a shelf in the kitchen where that was being prepared. But we had the ingredients on hand--bread, leftover marinara, and cheese and pepperoni in the freezer. So I turned Julia's face to the wall and got going.
Five minutes later, there I was, subjecting my pepperonis to the tortures of broil. And oh, how they writhed and sizzled from the heat. Yet, though the pepperoni curled and died in agony, yea, still the cheese would not melt. I was most perplexed and kerflummexed. So the broiler was deprived of it's victims for a moment while I investigated this mysterious cheese. And as I poked at it and sniffed, and finally had to taste test, I learned the mozzarella's secret--It wasn't mozzarella at all.
It was potatoes. Grated hash browns, that look very much like mozzarella cheese, more exactly. And hash browns, you know, don't melt.
So the creativity had to begin to flow. After all, what do you do with hash brown pepperoni pizza? I did what every self-respecting pizza maker would do. I got out the real cheese from the fridge. We only had a little bit left, but it was real cheese. I knew this, because it said so, all across the front of the bag, and there was a very idyllic looking picture of cows grazing in a field. Not exactly the stuff of which potato bags are made. So I divided it into little bits and put it on each pizza. Then came Parmesan, then basil.
And now it is time for confession. I salted the pizza. I know, it's a food naturally high in sodium. But potatoes, people! Unsalted potatoes are disgusting! And so, knowing that Julia would never show her face in my kitchen again, I got out the salt shaker. And I shook. And guess what? Everyone liked it! We had no leftovers, not one little bit. So perhaps, this is not the worst pizza topping idea in the illustrious history of that food, but rather the birth of a new culinary sensation.
I think I'll call it Irish Pizza.