100 Days of Wonder — Day 16
The One Where I Made Pizza
I’ve made pizza nine times since we began lockdown. This may lead you to believe that I am some huge pizza fan, and that would be understandable, but actually, while I like pizza, I’m not crazy for it. Back in the ‘normal times’, the hubs and I hit our Pizza Express on the corner every few weeks, as it’s an easy meal out and we love our server Suzy. In general, I’m more mad for Mexican or Sushi, but about three weeks into the eat-sleep-repeat rotation that is Covid confinement, I was craving pizza. I figured, ‘how hard can it be?’ I’m a pretty good cook. I make Christmas dinner for the whole family every year and only occasionally forget something in the oven. I’ve mastered Felicity Cloake’s Four-Hour Bolognese. My Yorkshire puddings are legendary. This was not going to be that hard. (You can see where this is going.)
Off I went to the shops, but I was stymied right off the bat when I couldn’t find yeast. Not one to be dissuaded, I googled a no-yeast recipe and gave that a try. Yikes! Avoid. Just so, so very wrong. It was like matzo pizza. Apropos given it was around Passover time but suffice to say, it was a major fail. My husband ate it, but the look on his face was not one of culinary joy. And when I asked how it was, he did feel compelled for some strange reason to recall his father’s oft cited line regarding his mum’s cooking. (For reference, when she makes a roast dinner, the peas go on at the same time as the beef. Everything is the same palette of taupe when it’s served.) ‘I’ve been eating your mothers cooking for fifty years and it hasn’t killed me yet, so it won’t kill you either.’ Not exactly a review worthy of A. A. Gill, but a true sign of marital fealty if there ever was one. (He also said recently, when we asked him how he was fairing with the lockdown, ‘I have my wife and my whiskey. What more could I ask?’ Bless.)
Back to the pizza. Next time I got lucky at the supermarket. I found a pizza dough kit that had yeast and flour included— both hen’s teeth these days. Happy days! Things were looking up! Version Two was less cracker-like and a bit like eating… a gluten-laden sponge. Progress perhaps, but minimal. Version Three I let rise for a few hours in the warm kitchen. This time it almost started tasting like pizza. Almost — but not really what I would call ‘good.’ Or ‘edible.’
At this point, I’m now obsessed. I’m reading about the history of flour, different mill numbers (‘00’ is the best for pizza), types of proofing methods, New York vs Neapolitan dough (Neapolitan has a higher moisture ratio), gluten attributes, yeast types and cooking tips to mimic a wood fire pizza oven (see: the skillet method).
So why am I telling you a story about pizza? This is a great illustration of the difference between diversive and epistemic curiosity. Rather than google ‘why didn’t my dough rise?, I simply began reading about pizza. The history of pizza. Favourite pizza toppings. (Pineapple is number 8?? What fresh hell people?!?) Because I was able to take a simple exercise of making pizza and turn it into an adventure in curiosity, I was able to engage my exploratory behaviour more deeply — not task specific curiosity but ‘everything-I-could- learn-about-the-history-of-pizza-dough’ curiosity. I realise this sort of time is a luxury and the experience, frankly, was borne out of necessity, as any other time I would have just bought the damn thing from Suzy. But it was amazing. I learned so much. Chiefly, I learned a whole new level of appreciation for pizza chefs. Seriously, mad props you striped-shirted pizzaiolo!
Allowing myself to fall down the mozzarella-lined rabbit-hole rather than looking for a specific answer allowed me to enjoy not just the process of making pizza, but the process of sucking at making pizza. How often can we say that? ‘Wow. I was genuinely terrible at that, but I had a blast.’ When we can enjoy the process of being curious rather than simply seeking a specific answer, we are more open to receiving information and better at embedding it. We also become less outcome focused, so when we fail, it’s ok. This is the type of ‘flow’, Cikszentmihalyi spoke about, and within the flow, failing is just part of the process towards the ‘aha’ moment.
We are usually in such a hurry for the solution. In work, in life, and these supercomputers with enough power to send a man to the moon sit here in the palms of our hands, waiting to be asked a question. (And I use mine to watch videos of dough throwers. What a world.) But that power to get an immediate answer means we risk stunting our exploratory behaviour. Why is exploratory behaviour important? Low exploratory behaviour is associated with depression and anxiety. Novelty seeking (diversive curiosity with a specific goal) is associated with binge drinking and even arson. Low exploratory behaviour is an indication of our brain not seeking knowledge for knowledge’s sake, but rather looking for the dopamine rush of a ‘new idea pellet’ and when we do that, we slam shut the wonder window.
By Version Nine of the Breadstick Death March I had managed to create a pretty tasty pie. Still not as good as Pizza Express, but darn tasty. (Pic below — it’s not a beauty contest people. Don’t judge!!)
Version Ten? Not happening. Never. Basta. Stick a fork in me, I’m done. But the process of diving pie deep into epistemic curiosity was fun. It also worked out my wonder muscle, which in turn makes me healthier and more awe prone. Mamma mia! Never have I enjoyed being terrible so much!
Chef’s kiss to you all and #GoInWonder.
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