IF YOU’RE FROM THE WEST COAST, YOU EAT HAWAIIAN PIZZA. If you’re not, you think it’s weird. Happily, I fall into the former category. In the small town where I grew up in Washington state, we had one pizza place, Rome Pizza. And the only pie my family ever ordered was Canadian bacon and pineapple. (My brother and I thought pepperoni was “too hot”.) On the extremely rare occasion that we picked up a pizza to go (I’m pretty sure there was no delivery service), my mom and I would swing by on the way home from my dance lessons, which were held just down the street. Sitting in the front seat of our red 1960 something Mustang, I was delighted to be the official pizza holder. With the massive box resting on my lap I could feel the heat through my tights and used to beg for just one bite of that sweet smelling pizza. I always had to wait. But it was worth it.
This delicious combination inspired last night’s skewers. [Read more...]