Jack's Pizza

When you see the word “pizza,” something inevitably pops into your head. It might be a memory of an impossibly deep Chicago-style pizza packed in casserole-like layers of olives, sausage, tomato sauce, cheese and saturated dough. It might be the delicious paradox of thin-crust pizza – crunchy on the bottom, chewy in the center – that you folded sloppily into your mouth in your dorm room. Or maybe the savory smell of caramelized ham and pineapple, or the mellow aroma of wet mozzarella melting rapturously with sweet plum tomatoes and basil in the intense heat of a wood-fired oven.

In Chicago it is thick. In New York it is thin and wide. Greek immigrants in the Northeastern U.S. slathered dough with olive oil to make it crisp and topped it with feta cheese and Kalamata olives. California pizza became a platform for non-traditional seasonal produce like bean sprouts and shaved carrots. Vermont pizza replaced tomato sauce with a drizzle of real maple syrup over breakfast sausage and eggs. The Western U.S., ironically, popularized Hawaiian pizza, topping ours with sweet pineapple and sliced ham.

Everyone has their own idea about what constitutes a great slice. Considering the history and passion associated with the food, writing about “pizza” is like tackling the topic “The Bible,” or “The Chinese Empire” or “Logan Park Strips.” Where does one begin?

I began at Jack's Woodfired Oven at 256 North Main in Logan. I found Jack and Julie Carlisle working around the large Italian-built wood burning pizza oven in the center of the restaurant. Sticks of apple wood were stacked loosely against the wall. White-hot coals lit the interior of the oven, cooking fragrant yeast dough. I was there for some real pizza.

I know what you are thinking, real pizza? But there is such a thing. Italians cared enough about pizza to “copyright” the method, and to delineate the ingredients that go into an authentic one. There is even an organization.

According to the Verace Pizza Napoletana Association (VPNA) based in Naples, Italy, (and backed by the European Union) authentic pizza must be cooked in a wood oven. Jack's got one. It cooks at an infernal 900 degrees. Jack's job is to stand in front of the cave-shaped opening, shoveling around the rapidly rising dough. Cooking a pizza at home can take 10-20 minutes, but in a wood-fired oven like Jack's, the pizza is done in two. The high heat removes the moisture from the thin crust quickly, making is crispy on the outside, and leaving it chewy on the inside.

I ordered the Margherita pizza (at Jack's it is called “That One Pizza,” but if you ask for a Margherita, they'll know what you are talking about). This classic Italian pizza is made with high-moisture mozzarella, tomatoes, and fresh basil leaves – and according to VPNA, is the only certifiably authentic pizza in existence.

Jack cut generous slabs of fresh mozzarella (the kind packed in brine) and scattered them with sauce on the hand-stretched dough. It melts in a creamy pool, and has a chewy, texture with no grease. This type of cheese begins extremely mild, noted Julie, but as it cooks it absorbs the intense flavors of the other toppings … the sweet acidity of tomatoes, the fragrant fresh basil, and the woody taste of smoke and extra virgin olive oil.

The Carlisles seek out the best possible ingredients, and get them locally when they can. The flour in the dough comes from Central Milling Flour on Center Street. Their Gouda, Gruyere, and Feta come from Rockhill Creamery. The dough is handmade. The sauce comes from fresh tomatoes – seeded by hand. The basil is fresh, fragrant, and whole. It becomes slightly crisp on the top of my pizza.

For the Carlisles, this all began as one serious hobby. They built a wood-burning oven in their yard, just to experiment. They'd never been to Italy, or to New York City for that matter. They'd never tried to emulate the authentic Pizza Napoletana … it just turned out that what the Carlisles liked was basically the same pizza the Italians had perfected over hundreds of years. You start with really good flour, and make a wet dough, said Julie. That way you get a good rise in the hot oven, and get exceptional texture.

My Margherita was exceptional. The salty Mozzarella absorbed a mild smoky flavor from the oven accentuated by a bit of Parmesan and smoked Provolone. The mottled brown crust had just a hint of char and was well balanced by sweet tomatoes, clean-tasting basil and chewy cheese. Pizza at Jack's needs to be folded to be eaten properly. Because the focus of the pizza is flavor, not structure, the crust isn't super-inflated. It's the toppings that you taste. The Carlisles encourage pizza seekers to order no more than three toppings. If you get more than that, said Jack, the flavors are muddled, too intense, and the thing doesn't cook properly.

When you go to Jack's, I recommend ordering one pizza per person. The prices are reasonable, and the current lunch special is a downright deal. My companion and I ordered one small (9 inch), as well as two “mini” (6 inch) pizzas that came with the lunch special. When we left, we weren't carrying any boxes. The large (12 inch) may feed more than one, but I'd lean to the hungry side when ordering.

To clear them of any liability, the Carlisle's pizza does not conform to all the freakishly strict standards maintained by the VPNA. The price of importing San Marzano plum tomatoes from the south of Italy, and south European-produced buffalo cheese would be cost prohibitive, for one. And they don't measure their stretched dough to the centimeter. So if you want a technically correct VPNA pizza, fly to Italy. But if you want a pizza that at heart is authentic, with a dash of Cache Valley, go to Jack's.

Love and Food

My latest HJ News story:

When I think about foods that say amour, I think about the avocado. Its availability is an exotic luxury in frigid Cache Valley. This bulbous fruit has a creamy texture and flesh that undulates between deep and pale green. A ripe strip of buttery avocado spread on a crisp baguette stippled with a sharp accent of freshly ground black peppercorn is positively sensual.

I'm not alone. Along with bananas, almonds, oysters and eggs to name a few, the avocado has long been linked with passion. The Spanish, in fact, found the avocados from the New World so obscene that they were shunned by descent folk. There is no science behind the association … in fact many foods thought to be aphrodisiacs are thus categorized because of their similarity to the shape of various parts of the human anatomy. Our brains are that simple.

That isn't saying that the avocado isn't good for you. The fruit is loaded with folic acid, B6, and potassium, and although it has some fat, it has no cholesterol, making it good for your heart. And a healthy heart never hurt any relationship.

But as any country song can tell you, true love takes more than cardiovascular health. It takes the right menu. Food is kind of a control thing. From the very beginning of life you get to choose what goes into your mouth. You seek out what tastes good, and reject what you dislike. You like Cheetoes. You don't like peanut butter. It is part of the definition of who you are.

Then you meet somebody. She loves peanut butter. She cooks Ethiopian food. She doesn't eat processed flour. What do you do? Love is about sharing. You share yourself, you share your possessions, and you share your meals. Being open to new experience is an essential part of love, and food can play a big part.

When I think about love, I also think about strawberry frosting. My husband is … shall we say “particular” about his food. When we were dating, we stopped by the grocery store to pick up some ingredients for cupcakes. I chose my favorite – lovely pale pink strawberry frosting. He looked at the container and made barfing noises. I burst into tears and ran to the car.

A few months later, he made a dinner for me. He presented a beautiful pudding cake, smothered in creamy waves of bright pink strawberry frosting. That was the moment I knew I really loved this guy.

We don't eat much strawberry frosting anymore. We don't need it. We have moved beyond the strawberry frosting stage of our relationship. We are past the intense, light, beautiful but unsubstantial menu of dating. That was the day of chocolate souffle, coconut shrimp, and curried wild salmon. The food of dating is rich, spicy, elaborate, and fleeting. You daringly eat things that aren't supposed to be consumed … rose petals with couscous or pancakes at dinner. It is intoxicating, but it can't last. You need some fiber.

Those happy souls who move beyond the strawberry frosting stage enter what I like to call the spinach ravioli stage of love. This is where sharing and learning become central. Passion no longer spits with the vengeance of a deep fryer. It simmers. Things don't always come naturally. You learn to meet the needs of your companion, you explore limits, you shed baggage, you hurdle obstacles, you learn to compromise. The first time you try and form a ravioli it isn't perfect. A little ricotta squirts out at one end. There are flecks of spinach stuck in the dough. It is shaped like a cow's udder. But you keep trying, and it gets better and better. And you savor the process for the meal's sake.

Then comes the brown-sugar-glazed ham stage of love. This is when staying awake after dinner is less important than eating well during dinner. Your table gets larger. You both have to choose foods that please and satiate the masses. You have the resources and knowledge to put together a grand meal, and you do – on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Roasted sweet potatoes with butter, green bean casserole topped with crunchy fried onions, and chocolate pudding pie garnish your table. On other occasions easy pasta casseroles or simple meaty grilled burgers fill your stomach. Certainly strawberry frosting reignites serendipitously on occasion. And you make it work with whatever is else is on the menu.

Then comes the Coq au Vin stage of love. Characteristic of French cooking, this classic chicken and wine dish takes three days to make, but you have the time and the commitment, why not invest? It is something to be savored. This is the time for good cheese, baked Brie and pears, braised lamb chops and mango chutney.

And then the golden sweetness of mature love … the pan-fried fish stage. One of the sweetest exchanges I've ever heard came from an elderly couple who related how they didn't like fish … neither of them. But they ate pan-fried fish every Tuesday for three decades. They look at each other and chuckle. The woman thought the man liked fish, and although she found the smell and texture distasteful, she prepared it and ate it for his sake without complaint. The man had never liked fish, but his wife was kind enough to go to the trouble, and he consumed it with pleasure for her. For three decades, once a week, they ate fish that neither of them liked. What they were really serving up to each other was love.

And if all else fails, there is always chocolate. Eating chocolate can make you happy. It's a chemical thing. It contains a host of compounds including theobromine, a stimulant similar to caffeine, and phenylethylamine which releases dopamine in the pleasure centers of the brain. Chocolate also helps the brain produce feel-good serotonin which aids in relaxation. Be sure to grab the dark kind – it contains antioxidants, whereas milk chocolate is just that: milk and sugar with trace amounts of cocoa. Try Logan's famous and delicious Bluebird chocolate … but honestly, I'd prefer pan-fried fish.

Stop Motion Sunday Morning

After watching Wallace and Gromit, A Matter of Loaf and Death, we (the kids and I) decided to try that form of art ourselves. If you haven't worked with hobby clay, it is a lot of fun. We used the freeware "MonkeyJam" to do the stop motion animation. Here is what we produced this Sunday morning.












Here is Leo's, "Worms Lost" (It is a working title):


Here is mine, "On a Roll."


And finally, Gabe's collaborative masterpiece, "Piggy Eats."



Hollywood, here we come!

Meat and Men

Below is a recent column I wrote in the Logan Herald Journal. It was printed Friday, January 29 in the weekend section.
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My education at USU failed me. Sure, it prepared me for a career, and opened my eyes to the world, but it taught me nothing about steak. I spent most of my time in the College of Natural Resources, where half my colleagues avoided meat for environmental, moral, or health reasons. The other half (of which I belonged) couldn't afford it. So much for that big meaty bull, Aggies.

This all changed when I married a man with a job. My husband is a steak connoisseur. When we dine out, he invariably peruses the menu for a good cut of meat. He knows the all good steak places in Logan, and appreciates what goes into preparing a good juicy T-bone.

What is it about men and meat? Is it a sociological connection to sharing the kill around the fire? Is it a psychological symbol of power over nature? A caloric necessity to fill the stomach? Does it taste really really really good?

I grew up somewhat cloistered from meat culture. The only kind of beef on our table was the ground kind. Then one evening after helping a neighbor cater a dinner I was presented my compensation … a lovely thick slab of Porterhouse dressed with tangy A1 sauce. Every solid juicy mouthful was heaven.

It was an inspiration, but not a conversion for me. I don't automatically flip to the red meat section of every menu I hold. It seems like a missed opportunity when there is new food to try. I've often wondered if this is a function of gender, or just individual preference. Do men need meat more than woman?

They eat more of it. Men are more likely to eat meat than women, according The FoodNet Population Survey completed in 2007 by B. Shiferaw. In the national survey, men ate more chicken, duck, veal and ham than women. Women were more likely to eat fruits and vegetables such as carrots, tomatoes, strawberries and raspberries.

This may in fact be part of the reason that women live longer than men. That cow may kill you, and not in the cool running-of-the-bulls-of-Pamplona way. Men and women who ate about 4.5 ounces of red meat a day – the equivalent of a small steak – had a modest to moderate increase in overall mortality, as well as in cancer and cardiovascular disease according to the National Cancer Institute in 2009. But we're not going to dwell on that.

Your significant other eats significantly different than you do. But why?

Differences in eating styles between men and women are not based on nutrition, according to the Harvard School of Medicine. Caloric intake is based on body size and activity. More active people need more calories. Bigger people need more calories – irrelevant of gender. Both sexes need the same percentage of protein, fat, and vitamins in their diet, with the exception of iron. While red meat is an excellent source of iron, it is the woman who needs it more.

The difference may be more practical. A Norwegian study on men and food called "I eat because I'm hungry, because it's good and to become full" reports … actually, the title pretty much says it all. (Roos, Gun & Margareta Wandel, 2005). “Women have a, well, a thing about food. They want to make fancy food. … I just want [to eat] a lot and to eat it fast, and then I can go out and do something else,” reported an male eater in another study by the same authors.

Whatever your reason for eating steak, you don't need to rely on a steakhouse for the essential (or occasional) red meat. You can turn out a beautiful steak at home. I had the opportunity to observe local steak experts Joyner Lofthouse and Bill Fillmore at work in the kitchen. These men have a combined 60 years experience cooking steak, and the sizzle hasn't left the grill for either. They've served enough hot platters to know that the perfect steak is in the eye of the beholder, but Fillmore's preferences fall with the New York steak, or any cut that has plenty of fatty marbling for flavor.

A good cut of meat has a bit of moisture, a bright color, an even cut, and no odor. Look for a cow who spent more time on the couch than in the gym. Developed muscle makes tougher meat (sorry Aggie Bull). Good steak is aged for 10-28 days to allow the enzymes in the meat to tenderize it. It can be wet-aged or dry-aged. Most meat at the grocery store is wet-aged in the package. Dry-aged beef can be found at some steakhouses. It allows some of the moisture to evaporate and creates a more intense meaty flavor. All beef should be stored below 40 degrees to keep those microbes at bay, but bringing the meat to room temperature just before putting it on the grill makes a more tender steak.

Waves of heat shimmied the air off the griddle in front of the steak experts. It has to be hot, said Lofthouse, close to 400 degrees. A few drops of an oil that can take the heat (canola, peanut, or safflower) will help prevent sticking. High heat sears the exterior of the steak and gives it a nice crust. This seals in the juices before it overcooks the center. The men lay their steaks down, and season the up side with seasoning salt and granulated garlic. Once the steak starts to sweat, they turn it over and season the back.

Lofthouse uses the finger jab method to determine doneness. That comes with experience, he said. A good meat thermometer will do for the rest of us. He prefers his steak medium rare, with a nice pink middle (between 130-145 degrees). Fillmore is a medium man (between 145-155 degrees), and tops his with a little melted butter and 57 Sauce. Let the steak rest for three minutes before cutting to let the juices reabsorb (lightly covered to retain heat). If you don't, you'll get a piece of beef jerky sitting in a pool. Be patient, and the steak juice will be where it belongs, in your mouth.

The steak Lofthouse and Fillmore cooked for me was in a word, perfect. Tender, medium pink in the center, and dripping with flavor. Their seasoning complemented the natural taste of the meat, rather than overwhelming it. With a perfectly baked sweet potato by its side, I needed no sauce.

Whatever the reason for a man to love a steak, I'm glad I get a meaty bite once in a while. That steak may kill me, but would life be worth living without it?