Growing up, my family had pizza most Saturday nights. My father made the dough, producing a floury cloud as he loudly pounded the dough on the counter. My mother and I grated the cheese (often frozen blocks of mozzarella) and sliced the pepperoni, or cut up the lunch meat. Olives and green pepper rounded out the ingredients.
In college, I began to try to make my own pizza. The first attempt was a nightmare that ended in tears and my boyfriend's suggestion that we go to the pub for a burger. He didn't last. But the pizza tradition did.
Nearly thirty years later, I make pizza every Saturday night (except when it's too hot to turn on the oven). My favorite is probably four cheese pizza. Thank goodness, I still have pesto leftover from last summer (and one more in the freezer). The cheeses are mozzarella, maytag blue, romano, and provolone.
The photo is perhaps worse or perhaps better because of an experiment with a light tent (aka cardboard box, notebook paper, white napkin, and clip-on lamp) and a bit of manipulation in Picasa.
The crust is something I've been experimenting with a bit lately. I've discovered that my lovely pizza stone turns a crust into a hard, difficult to cut, tasty, but kind of unpleasant item. To get a more tender crust, I've taken to using half water and half milk as the liquid base.