Pizza (and Profanities) in the Park

Ah sunshine.  A few hours and you begin to think that anything is possible.  Even, for instance, taking a crazed toddler and his half-crazed baby sister to the park, on your own, for general merriment, followed by pizza and ice-cream.

Note to self: Never forget that toddlers – at least my one – have no concept of “later”.  As in – “No, you can’t have an ice-cream now, you can have one later.  After your pizza.”

Naturally, he got his own way (the anticipated general merriment having been replaced by a tantrum which roused sleeping dogs and caused birds to take flight). And so the falling apart of the afternoon began.   We weren’t the only ones to hit on the novel idea of ice-creams in the sunshine (nor, I suspect to ignore a child’s abhorrence to the relative theory of time and treats), and the queue snaked out the door.  As did the other queue – the one for food (real food, that is) and drinks.  So I decided to kill birds with stones and put the Boy in the ice-cream queue and myself in the pizza one.  There followed much line-hopping, pushing, more tantrums, escape and abandonment (by him, I should point out, not me).  By the time every single person in the cafe had been disrupted in one way or another, a nice lady took pity on me and offered to get the blasted  ice-cream, while I held two children (the pram was hogging a table outside) and ordered pizza.  “No-pizza-no-pizza-no-pizza-no-pizza..." “And a fresh orange juice please."  “ME!!! ME FRESH OJEE JUICE!”  “Two fresh orange juices please." “That’ll be three-hundred and fourteen pounds...” 

And so it came to pass that I had to carry a fully grown man toddler, a very melty ice-cream, a rather large baby, and two glasses of juice, filled to the brim, out to our table.  Sometimes I just think there’s no point in washing my hair at all.  Or wearing clean clothes.  Finally we sat down, two half glasses of orange juice, one drenched baby, a toddler with sticky pink stuff all over his head,  and a tired old mother on the verge of collapse. 

The plus side to ice-cream is that it keeps the Boy occupied – indeed, quiet  - for several minutes.  Which is just long enough to unpack the Girl’s dinner, bib her up, get everything a safe distance from her grabbing hands, and start shovelling food in. Unfortunately the Boy beat me to it, and as soon as the ice-cream was gone, so was he.  A kindly Labrador cleaned his face for him, which the Boy took as an invitation to chase, and off they galloped.  I decided to be uncharacteristically calm, and lo! he returned – at the same time as the pizza arrived, steaming hot and plonked on the table.  The Boy clambered onto his chair, leaned back, and... crashed backwards.  I leapt up to try to catch him, knocked the remaining juice over the pizza, picked the stunned Boy up, and turned back just in time to see the Girl grab her bowl of food and dump it on her lap before flinging the bowl to the ground – covering herself, my bag, and the side of the pram with mush.  Overcome with temporary Tourettes I bellowed “OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” - much to the horror of the hundred or so very proper people and their well-behaved children who were sitting around us.  You could literally have heard a bowl of mush pin drop.  Even the Boy looked at me in horror.  He then looked at the pizza in horror, jumped down, and ran off after a dog shouting “no-pizza-no-pizza-no-pizza” (the Boy was shouting that is;  not the dog).  The Girl giggled, grabbed the pizza and shoved a sodden slice in her mouth.  

At least someone enjoyed it.  Riddled with shame, I gathered up our (wet, filthy) belongings, and the Girl and I went off in search of the Boy, who had disappeared with a pack of wolves.  I may have forgotten every single other trick of dealing with toddlers, but I never leave the house without an emergency lollipop;  thus armed I managed to lure him away from a life of feral scavenging, and back home. Where, ever a glutton for punishment (and possibly even more stubborn than my son) I made pizza for dinner. 

While all the evidence (see above) might suggest that I really don’t know how to make life easy for myself, I refuse to do anything which involves yeast and kneading – even pizza.  The following is based on a Jamie Oliver recipe (“Cheat’s Pizza” – although this version is quicker than his), takes a few minutes (about 15, from start to finish), and, I’m pleased to report, is good enough for toddlers, weaned babies, and sobbing mothers alike.  With any luck we may never need to go to the park cafe (or indeed, leave the house) again. Hurrah.

Quick-as-a-flash Pizza

You need (for 2 adults, or 1 adult, 1 toddler and 1 baby):

• A cup and a half of self-raising flour
• Half a cup of tepid water
• Some olive oil and salt
• A portion of tomato sauce, or a tin of chopped tomatoes*
• A ball of fresh mozzarella (no need to  use good stuff – in fact, the less milky it is, the better)
• Some grated parmesan
• Any other pizza toppings your hungry little heart desires

(Note – you also need a food processor and a relatively deep, oven-proof frying pan.)

Measure a cup and a half of self-raising flour and put into the bowl of the food processor.  Using the same cup, add half a cup of tepid water, a couple of glugs of olive oil, and a pinch of salt, and blend.  It should only take a minute or so to have a sticky ball of dough.

Put the heat on high under the frying pan;  put your grill on high also.

Cover the ball of dough with flour and roll it out til it’s fairly thin – not ”see-through” thin, about half a cm (JO calls for 1cm thick, which I think is too much – I don’t like it too doughy – but if you do, then listen to the him, not me).

Drizzle some olive oil on the pan, swilling it around to cover the base.  Then using the rolling pin, lift the dough and lay in the pan as evenly as possible.  Keep the heat on high.

Spoon the tomatoes (whichever you’re using – see my note below) onto the dough – use as much as you want, depending on how much tomato sauce you like on your pizza.  (I was fairly generous, and JO’s recipe calls for the same.)

Tear the mozzarella ball into chunks and scatter on top of the sauce.  You’ll probably find that half a ball is enough. 

At this point, add any other toppings you might want – salami slices, grilled vegetables etc (I dotted some pesto around) – and then cover it all with a couple of tablespoons of roughly grated parmesan.

All of this should take no more than a couple of minutes.  If it’s taking longer, take the pan off the heat - the underside of the dough will start to burn otherwise.

Stick it under the grill for about 4 minutes – keep an eye on it and if the exposed parts of the dough start to burn, remove.

More olive oil on top, remove from the pan, and leave to cool for a few minutes, before tucking in. 

Serve with a mollifying and abashed apology for earlier Bad Mummy behaviour. And a vat of wine to numb all lingering residual shame. 

*If you have some tomato sauce to hand – ie, the stuff you’d put on pasta – that’s ideal.  I didn’t, and was feeling very very slovenly, so just opened a carton of chopped tomatoes with basil and oregano.  Jamie’s recipe calls for a half tin of tomatoes blended with garlic, olive oil, and various other things (I stopped reading when I got to the instruction to blend, and instead took the easy route).  I suggest you do the same too – to cut down on time and washing up.   If all you have to hand are plain chopped tomatoes, then liven them up a bit with anything you have to hand – dried herbs, a spoonful of pesto sauce,  a couple of dashes of Worcester sauce etc.