A Greek Pizza Dough in its 30s (Work in Progress)

An ever-changing recipe by G. Michalis Papadopoulos.

Ingredients:

3 cups of all-purpose flour

Half a packet of active dry yeast

1 tsp of honey

1 cup of lukewarm water

Salt (to taste)

1-2 tsps extra virgin olive oil

Spices, to your liking. I use:

- A pinch of MSG

- Two dashes of gyros seasoning

- One dash of nutritional yeast

Preparation Time:

It took me 10 years to reach this stage.

Oh, to make the dough, you ask? Around 30’-45’, then 1 to 7 days resting in the fridge; the longer it rests, the more it develops a characteristic sourdough taste.

Yield:

Three single-serving pizzas.

Reaching this point:

Shaping oneself is a lengthy process, violent even, at times.

Before turning 20, the kitchen and I met only for her to feed me; a toxic relationship she has been a victim of, I reckon now how patient she was with me. As if she were aware that one day I would change my mind and join her, that she could fix me. At first glance, that bet was delusional; giving cooking an honest go had never occurred to me, and my sparse cooking attempts to this point have been a disaster.

How much of a disaster? Once home alone, I tried frying some French fries to snack on while gaming. But teenagers are irresponsible, everybody knows that, so I left the oil burning for two games straight. Only when I horribly lost both games and started feeling disoriented from the smoke (naturally, I lost due to that dizziness: that was my official, declassified explanation), I rushed to the stove to witness my creation. Thus, in the moment’s panic and age’s tomfoolery, I have sealed my fate.

'What better way to put out a fire than by watering it down?’ I thought, placing the frying pan under the sink. That explosion, although mesmerizing in its ferocity, dowered me with a burnt jacket, stained curtains, and a mess never to be seen before in my mom’s kitchen. Contemplating the catastrophe some hours later, my mom politely suggested that I was not allowed to cook again in this kitchen for some time. “Politely” was, and always has been, her official, declassified record of the incident.

But I left for Barcelona for an exchange semester when I became 20, to live by myself for the first time. So out of necessity, and under draconian supervision, she took the time, with a face clouded with doubts mind you, to explain some of the basics. Then I was on my own. One of the first things I wanted to make by myself was pizza, because I was still recovering from the idiocy of a teenage self, and pizza seemed like the perfect food back then. Thus, a journey in my 20s, in the hunt for the perfect pizza dough recipe, has begun.

Why is the recipe only for the dough? Because you may mess with the toppings as much as you would like and scrape them off, if the sauce is a bit off, you might be able to ranch or sweet chili your way out, but the dough is always there; without it, is it even pizza? Also, it is the one component of the dish that troubled me the most. How much does it trouble me? Safe to say that, over the last ten years, I have attempted multiple iterations.

First dough I’ve ever made was as simple as Greek strained yogurt and self-rising flour. Sounds nice and easy and adequate, but that blob never sat properly, nor could I knead it enough to develop the gluten. I gave it lots of opportunities to redeem itself, I’ve let it consume tons of flour to hydrate properly, but it still required more. It didn’t even taste good, far too tart to my liking. So I crossed it off and ventured towards new iterations, understanding that simple or just available is not always good.

Then came an existential dread’s worth of questions; what pizza do I prefer, even? Thick or thin crust? Elastic or doughy? Circular, oolongy, or rectangular? To answer them, I have been experimenting; different masks for different guests, I’ve made pizzas of all shapes and tastes and sizes, never for myself but always for others; their feedback, I was thinking, was what should guide me, a North Star.

Still, the more I catered to external judges, earning their approval, the less I enjoyed my slices, I came to realize. I could see their enjoyment pictured in their faces on each of their bites, and I wondered what was wrong with me? My pizza never even tasted like the ones from restaurants, either! Naturally, I explained to myself, that they have all this fancy equipment and specialized ingredients that us mortals are excluded from, and can never get our hands on. For months, these thoughts have troubled me, yet these excuses have sufficed. In a secret contempt and hatred for always prioritizing others, in a resting realization that I can always get myself out of trouble with crafting the right explanation, I carried on.

Until it came: a time of loneliness. Vast loneliness, comprised of breakups, painful realizations, and faded friendships. There came a time, close to when my 20s were ending, that I had no one else to feed but myself, facing no excuses but the innate need to eat, and I didn’t even know what that bastard wanted for his pizza.

It took me a year; my last year of youth, as some believe the 20s to be. That’s how this recipe came to be. And it’s the one I have started to truly enjoy, as it is my own.

Instructions:

One starts with a part of themselves: a cup of water placed in a large bowl. As the water should be as lukewarm as one can be, and when their fingers touch it, they should feel nothing; no cold, no warmth. Just an extension of who one is, reflecting their idol back to them.

To that, one must add a touch of sweetness; life is far too bitter without it. Honey, for me, is what I go for. It has a character as it is uniquely natural, it is a product of hard work, and still, it can be far from perfect, different each time. But one is free to use the sweetener of their liking.

Only in such conditions is the yeast added. Only then may it bloom, may it feed itself. Blooming, in culinary terms, is an unnecessary step, only reserved for those who doubt the quality of their ingredients. But I refuse to skip it; that water mix is, after all, a part of me. I stand on top of it, in agony, awaiting a reaction, a sign that it’s ok, that it’s alive. After a minute of eternity, I breathe to it, and wait: will it respond to me?

Embracing the breath, the muddy-looking water mix should react; vibrant fireworks of beige pop on the surface, a loud, excited statement of life that’s ready for the next step takes place.

If not, give it some time, a second breath. But shall the moment pass, and one’s yeast remains inactive, mourn it for a moment, if one wishes; but be not afraid of starting over. There is no guilt in starting over. Yet there is shame in never doing so.

Then, and only then, one is free to add the first two cups of flour, the spices, and a good amount of salt to the bowl, to initiate the harsh, tedious process of mixing it all up. Salt, in the beginning, scares the yeast; it drives it away. Once the yeast is bloomed and ready to face it, is when one should allow such an encounter to occur.

One quickly reaches a point when the pizza becomes unworkable, too sticky. To the uninitiated, this is a call for action, to add more flour, to lubricate it with olive oil, or a call for distress, to wonder where things have gone south. None of these is the best solution, however. At this stage, one shall leave the kitchen at once.

Preposterous, you call this? Unproductive and lazy? I don’t blame you! Who in their right mind, in times of anguish, chooses to turn a blind eye and calmly move on with their day? Silence is dreadful and hostile to humans, few can stand it. But since it is my recipe, please allow me to explain. There is one eternal ingredient in cooking; we call it time. Time, here, is needed for the flour to fully hydrate, for it to be kneadable again. Time it requires, to contemplate its existence, and allow itself to be carried away to the next stage. Give it some time. Give some time to yourself.

After some time has passed, one may return to kneading, adding just as little flour as possible. There is nothing else to do than to work the dough until one or the other gives in. Up until this point, I mix with a wooden spoon to contain the mess; yet I realize that getting my hands dirty is unavoidable, so I cover them with olive oil and dive in.

To knead, I use a combination of methods: folding and pinching, massaging, twisting the dough around. Sometimes, however, in the solitude and safety of my home, I punch and slap it, I scream, I become alive, bewildered by the moment, I let it all out. Until the anger from within depletes, and I remain empty and reborn.

One knows when to stop, when a stretched dough can be spread so thin that light passes through, without breaking. The gluten, the dough’s character, has developed. It is ready then.

I break it off into three small doughs, one suffices for a single serving of pizza. I round them all up, cover them with olive oil, place them in individual containers in the fridge to rest, mature, and let them build their taste.

You’ve now got your pizza dough. What to do with it? It’s not just one’s now; it’s yours. It is you. With you, you’re free to choose for yourself.

Final Notes:

I stubbornly refuse to be baking-level precise, as I do not believe in such certainty in life. Nor do I care, no more, to create something that any aficionados would welcome as acceptable, authentic, or narrow-mindedly correct.

It is but a Greek Pizza Dough; unauthentically authentic and unique, imperfect and ever-changing, and Greek, due to its creator’s origin. And while it features gyro seasoning, that blend I always use is purchased from Poland.