[Seasons: Spring XX]
We have an outdoor pizza oven on our farm. We usually fire it up for the first time in March, marking early spring is the beginning of pizza season.
Two characteristics make wood fired pizza superior. The first is ironically undesirable by chain pizza makers and most restaurants: burned edges. My oven, if fed well, will remain between 600 and 700 degrees for most of the evening. The fire in the back of the oven is well over 900 degrees, making it nearly impossible not to burn the nearest edge of the pizza crust. Because a slight char on some part of the crust is inevitable, the added smokey flavor is associated with wood fired pizza. What’s undesirable in some contexts is a desirable symbol of authenticity in others.
The second characteristic is the temperature contrasts. The steaming pizza in hand balances the chilly air on one’s cheeks. This is highlighted in the spring and autumn more than it is in the summer. The cold outside temperature builds anticipation for each pizza and highlights their freshness when finally consumed. It’s a wonderful balance of sensations that cannot be replicated indoors.
The char and the chill are a type of unmediated connection with the natural elements. Two traits that are otherwise avoided during most meals are welcomed, even desired, during pizza season.
The outdoor wood fired pizza experience is culinary vulnerability at its best—exposure to the elements, unpredictable burned edges, and no promise of the same experience twice.
And it’s sacred.
I’ve never met someone that doesn’t love pizza night. I’ve never met someone that isn’t moved by the sacred. Despite what many of us have learned, perhaps the sacred is more likely to be experienced through exposure, vulnerability, and contrast. Perhaps it’s unpredictable and unmediated. Maybe it’s more likely to be encountered in a slice than under a steeple.
