There was a challenge set upon me.
Living in the land of northern New Jersey where pizza is a religion, there was definitely a hole in my life where the mighty pie once sat.
I’d see it on others’ plates, taunting me, teasing me in all its cheesy, oily goodness. A few weeks ago after a marathon day of winery-hopping on Long Island with my girlfriends, I had my wine-induced superpowers on and thought that stealing a bite of bacon pizza wouldn’t kill me. One bite turned into half a slice and then I subsequently wept myself to sleep in pain.
Then I thought… okay, let’s be a real adult and not do that again.
So last night with a little brainstorming and maybe a fraction of the wine superpowers, I created this pizza monstrosity that took all my willpower not to eat the whole thing.
The gluten-free pizza dough eluded me at first… did I really want to make my own? Buy the right flour, yeast packets–what in the world do I do with the yeast? Or do I buy the pre-made kind out of the aisle at the supermarket whose prices are only for the 1%? Yeah, no. I cruised the store to find a frozen dough that cost over $7 and it had dairy in it, so no go. Found a boxed one on the shelf, over $8 and also dairy. But then… I found this guy:
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