White pizza

I have similar feelings about white pizza as I do about white chocolate and white-bean chili.

In a word, imposter.

White pizza a big round tasty breadstick but it’s not pizza. I may not be Italian but I’ve eaten a buttload of pizza during the course of la mia dolce vita. A perfect pizza, with chewy crust, bubbling cheese, and a tangy tomato sauce, can cause me to temporarily lose my mind, only to find it right next to an empty pizza box or tray. I have been known to hoover the whole thing, be it a thick Chicago-style pizza from Gino’s East or a homemade jobber with a cornmeal-dusted crust and fresh sauce.

A white pizza, however, has never inspired me to do more than flip the page on the menu and order another carafe of chianti. I need some color in my life and if I can’t get it from my pizza, I’ll just drink my dinner instead. I’m not saying it’s not tasty but when faced with a choice between a pizze bianche or a tomato pie, why would I ever choose the white one? Olive oil is an oil, not a sauce.

I call bullshit on white pizza.

(photo: emerilware.com)

Vegan baked goods

The farmers market in my neighborhood is a delicious place of magic, wonder, and things to delight the senses. I love to peruse the stalls, sampling soups and spreads and breads. The vegan bakery looks so charming, like etsy was blended with anthropologie and shot through with a dash of country café. 

So I suspend my disbelief and reach for a peach muffin.

Five dollars lighter, I lick my lips and prepare to make my oral assault. What’s that? How is it? Ummm, hmmm, gaaaaa, uhhh, kakakaaaaaaaa.

Hey, thanks for that sip of organic goat’s milk. Whew. I forgot there for a minute that sawdust is vegan.

I’m pretty particular when it comes to breads, pastries, pies, and baked goods. Since I don’t eat them every day, I want to make sure that when I do, it transports me to my grandmother’s kitchen, an authentic pâtisserie, or a dessert cart at a four-star restaurant.

I don’t want to conjure up the lumber yard, lawn clippings, or a wood chipper.

When it comes to baked goods, no butter + no eggs = no dice. There’s a lot to be said for going vegan, sure, but melt-in-your-mouth muffins and flaky croissants sure as shit isn’t a vegan baker’s sweet spot.

(photo: espressoandcream.com)

Oatmeal raisin cookies

Mmm, a delicious golden-brown cookie, studded with scrumptuous bits and pieces. Just what the sweet tooth ordered. I reach for the treat, sink my teeth into its chewy goodness, and FREAK MY SHIT OUT.

Goddamn raisins.

As far as I’m concerned, a raisin is a poor man’s chocolate chip when it comes to an oatmeal cookie (and maybe everything else). I grew up eating my grandma’s cowboy cookie recipe, which my mother invariably burnt every time. However, dunked in ice-cold 2-percent, crispy chocolate-chip oatmeal cookies became sublimely soggy and the Hershey’s bittersweet chips made my little heart beat a little faster.

I have since perfected the recipe and it’s pretty much the only cookie I make. When I’m at a café or friend’s house, I am drawn to the plate of oatmeal cookies. Obviously, those little brown specs are chocolate chips. Why would you use anything else? More often than I’d like to admit, I feel betrayed by the baker, tricked by the bait-and-switch.

Chocolate always bests raisins in the Rochambeau of baked goods.

(photo: levainbakery.com)

Onion skin

I’ve been making a lot of fajitas lately, which means I’ve been slicing my fair share of onions. This also means I’ve been crying a lot.

But not for the reason you might think.

The sulphenic acids may make me tear up, sure, but it’s the slimy onion skin between the crunchy layers that makes me flip my culinary shit. If I let an onion sit for a week or two, it invariably develops a gross film, not just on the outer layer, but between every layer.

In a word, ick. I wind up pulling slippery strands out of the skillet and praying I caught them all. When I bite into my tortilla and find a rogue skin, I can’t help but retch every so slightly at this root vegetable version of a loose strand of hair. And we all know how we feel about finding one of those in our Mexican food. Since hairnets don’t exist for onions (yet), I’m going to teach onions a lesson and eat a few leeks until they get their act together and are in season at the farmer’s market.

(photo: srgc.org.uk)