My Pizza-Making Journey to the Top. I Hope. -- Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

My Pizza-Making Journey to the Top. I Hope. -- Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

As soon as the patio was finished, I was determined to add something different and outdoorsy. “I think we should get a fire pit. It’ll be romantic to sit by the flames under the stars, put my feet up, and have a glass of wine in a toasty space.”

“You don’t think it will be dangerous, a fire? It’s not that big an area.”

Though I knew a pit would come with safety features, Diane’s question gave me pause. So now, what will make it a special place? Eureka! I had the answer. A pizza oven! That’s it, a pizza oven. I’ll become the best pizza man in the East Bay.

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I did my homework and settled on the one to buy; propane fired, sixteen inches wide, two pizzas at a time.  I maneuvered the bulky box to the perfect place adjacent to the patio, opened it, liberated that honey and settled it in a ceremonial spot. It gleamed. I was ready for a personal pizza that would be better than any from my favorite pizza place. My fantasy would become a reality.

More homework. How to get the perfect, tantalizing pizza that will make me the envy of all? I was so excited that I even thought about how to make a dessert pizza like the one I had in Sicily last year. It was topped with Nutella (yep, chocolate Nutella) and was unexpectedly delicious.

I settled the oven in its new home, connected it to the propane tank, and fired it for a dry run to get it ready for grilling.

I read about Neapolitan pizza makers and how they had to be certified. I didn’t need to go that far, as I had no intention of becoming a professional pizzaiolo. I just want to go to my backyard oven and make great pizza.

At this writing, I have made two pizzas, sorta. The first one succumbed to the heat. From the outset, it had no chance. Daydreaming of the final result, I did not turn the pizza at a quick enough pace, so one-half of it was burned to a coal crisp. We ate part of it but could not avoid the charcoal. No matter. I often suggested medicated charcoal to patients. My first pizza was medicinal.

Inexperienced with the pizza peel, I flipped the second pizza upside down, and it reverse-rolled upon itself. I looked in. I saw nothing that looked like a pizza but a coelacanthic lump with irregular edges. It seemed to look back at me, almost saying, “Even though I’m ugly, I’ll accept being a calzone than a Neapolitan pizza.” I reluctantly agreed. It was messy and undercooked, but portions of it worked. We adapted. We labeled it a calzone. We were hungry.

Where am I today on my pizza journey? Still confident. I relish the day when people will be begging for my pizzas. I am trying to figure out which friends will be my first pizzaiolo guests. It will test their friendship.