I thought I’d throw you all a curve ball, darlings — a deliciously sweet and just spicy enough to make your lips tingle a bit — curve ball. I mean, what kind of dilettante would I be if I didn’t dabble in a bit of cooking and sports metaphors?
When I’m recovering from a night of — well, debauchery is not an entirely accurate term — I mean my clothes remained on the entire evening, and there were no illicit substances involved — so let’s say overindulgence. Yes. So let’s back up, because that sentence was just terribly constructed, darlings, and the backspace key on my laptop is hooked up to a 500 volt (is that a lot? I don’t know) battery, and it gives me mildly painful shocks whenever I touch it, so let’s just press on, shall we? Onward, ho! (Please, no overused who you callin’ ho? routine, agreed? Good.)
So, to continue — when I’m recovering from a night of overindulgence, I find that pizza soaks up the lingering libations splendidly. Unfortunately, no one makes my pizza. But now you’ll be able to — I’ll tell you how, darlings. You can thank me later.
What you’ll need:
Some type of flatbread — if you really think that I make my own pizza dough, you’ve got to be kidding me – does the name beside my avatar say Betty Crocker? No, it does not.
Some sort of Alfredo sauce (ooh, the first twist — no tomato sauce!). Again, go gaze into your navel until you unravel the secret of the universe if you think I make my own. I recommend something cheesy — Classico has a Four Cheese Alfredo that’s actually my favourite, but you feel free to improvise.
Chicken breast – now, here I do actually recommend that you slaughter your own chicken, because it gives it that ever-so-fresh taste that you just don’t get with store bought chicken. In fact, the chickens that I always use are hand raised by the Countess and myself, and have only been fed the best grains and cornmeal, and they only drink single malt scotch. I call them my drunken chickens. I have a similar approach to raising geese for fois gras. My chickens enjoy an 18 year old Glenfiddich. I once enjoyed an 18 year old named Glenn Finnegan, but that was a long time ago. Sorry darling, again with the no backspacing. I tried and got burned so bad, I’m like Ringo Starr at the end of Helter Skelter, yelling “I got blisters on me fingers!”
But I digress. If you don’t raise your own drunken chickens, store bought will suffice. I guess.
Frank’s Red Hot Sauce. I’ve got nothing. Just pick up some Frank’s Red Hot Sauce.
Also, some banana peppers — the pickled kind — they have a tanginess and the vinegar just adds something to the mix. Don’t ask me — I didn’t go to culinary school, I just know what I like.
Pineapple chunks. Now, you can buy a pineapple, and peel it, core it and chop it up into chunks like a schmuck, or you can do what I do, and buy a can.
So, I guess you’re going to need a can opener, too.
Clothes. You’re going to require clothing to make this. Unless you’re a nudist — and there’s nothing wrong with that — I totally support alternative lifestyles. But if you are a nudist, and you’re preparing this, and you invite me over, can you please give me a little warning, so I can not eat anything you’ve touched. It’s nothing personal, it’s just, I don’t want to have to keep watching my food for little curly hairs.
Seriously? How do you prepare your food? Do you rub your junk all over your food? What makes you think that a nudist would rub theirs on their food?ˆ
Don’t be ridiculous! It’s just that they might scratch, or something — I don’t know — don’t judge me!
I think that’s really closed-minded, Helena, and I don’t know if I want to read your memoirs anymore. I am getting hungry, though, so could you maybe get back on track here?
Oh, don’t be like that. I’m sorry. Please don’t go. Okay, I’ll get back to the recipe.
On to the cheese. I shred a mix of Mozzarella and Mild Cheddar — about 2/3 Mozza and 1/3 Mild Chedda.
Alright, the first thing I do is just grill up the chicken breast (boneless/skinless — did I mention that?). I find that if I just pan fry it, it’s easiest. I cook it a bit on both sides to make it easier to cut, and then I take it out of the frying pan and cut it into strips (it’s going to be raw in the middle, so be sure to be cutting on a clean cutting board, and wash your hands before and after handling the chicken. Penny and I use a hand soap that we make ourselves by rendering fat, scooping off the tallow, and then adding lye. We find that the best fat comes from liposuction clinics. OH wait, sorry, that’s not us, that’s Tyler Durden from Fight Club.)
Nevermind. Moving right along, after I’ve cut up the chicken, I put it back in the frying pan (did I mention you’ll need a frying pan?) and then I coat it very liberally with Frank’s Red Hot Sauce. Cook it until it’s done.
Take your flatbread, spread a nice amount of the Alfredo sauce on, and then add your now spicy chicken, some banana peppers, and drained pineapple chunks.
Spread cheese over top — not too much, though — you don’t want to bury the taste of the toppings. If you like a little more spice, you can put a few more drops of Frank’s on top of the cheese, but it’s not necessary.
So now, put it in the oven at, I dunno — 175 Celsius/350 Fahrenheit — for maybe 20 minutes or so, until the cheese is melted and a little browning — maybe put the broiler on for the last 2 minutes? What am I? Rachel Ray?
Once the pizza’s in the oven, put on some music — The Tain by The Decemberists is 18 minutes long, so that’d be a good choice, and not only for the track length. If you’re, um, under the weather like I am today, you might want to go with something a little more mellow. I’d suggest Discreet Music by Brian Eno, but then, that first track is 30 minutes long, and then you might end up with a burned pizza, and nobody likes burned pizza.
Might I suggest, then, if your head is being attacked by tiny invisible piranhas that are slowly nibbling your brain like mine is, that you just put “I Know It’s Over” by The Smiths on repeat three times, or if you really want to mix it up, vary it by throwing in Jeff Buckley‘s cover version.
Enjoy your pizza, darlings.