That picture I posted two whole quotidians ago—the one of the cheesy herb pizza—unleashed a firestorm of questions.

Or two, to be exact.

Basically, a couple of you just wanted the recipe.

It can hardly be called a recipe, really. It’s simply a cross between focaccia and pizza, with some fresh herbs thrown in because SUMMER.

Actually, Luisa’s the one who gave me the inspiration. She did a post on focaccia in which she wrote about generously pouring olive oil over the dough so that it fries while it bakes. I haven’t actually made her recipe yet—it seemed so similar to my five-minute dough that I let that part go. The olive oil trick, though, that I snatched up right quick.

Cheesy Herb Pizza

I’ve been using dried oregano and fresh basil, but by all means go full fresh if you’re so inclined. Also, I didn’t measure anything for this recipe. The amounts are suggestions.

1/3 of a batch of five-minute dough
1/4 – 1/3 cup olive oil
1 teaspoon dried oregano
½ cup minced fresh basil
1 cup grated mozzarella cheese
½ cup grated Parmesan cheese
cornmeal, for dusting the pan

Drizzle a baking pan with olive oil and sprinkle with cornmeal.

Roll your dough to the desired size and thickness and lay it on the pan. Drizzle more olive oil over the dough, paying close attention to the edges. Sprinkle the dough with the dried oregano and then the cheeses.

Bake the pizza on the bottom rack of a 450 degree oven for ten minutes or until the cheeses are golden brown and bubbly. When the pizza is finished, immediately brush the edges with more olive oil. Sprinkle the basil over the pizza and dig in.

This same time, years previously: corn crepecakes, horses, hair, and everything else under the sun, the quotidian (8.6.12), why I am recuperating, dishes at midnight, quick, quick, quick, and quiche.  

Thursday, the play opens. Which means I’ve been gone from home nearly every evening for the last two weeks. I’ll be gone even more this week, my husband is about up to his eyeballs with my wacko schedule, and I’m about shot.

But right about now is when things start to get fun. For the first month of rehearsals, we met in a little church. The going was tedious: line memorization, getting accustomed to the other actors, interpreting the director’s directions, puzzling through the play’s nuances, etc.

Then last week we moved into the theater and added costumes, props, music, and lights.

Now the lines flow without thought (almost) and the focus is on nailing the transitions and getting comfortable in the new space. I have an actual desk to sit behind and a swivel chair with wheels from which I dispense sage medical advice while hoping I don’t roll backwards off the stage.

I like this play. It’s funny, poignant, and earthy. The characters have depth, the set is minimalistic, the dialogue is punchy (in other words, PG 13). The plot line is this: 1) a single woman finds herself pregnant and alone, 2) she becomes friends with an intellectually-challenged young man, 3) life happens. The first time we ran the whole play off-book, back in that little church, I cried (watching it, not acting—the doctor doesn’t cry). It’s good stuff.

Showtimes are Thursday – Saturday, August 7-9 at 8:00 pm; Thursday – Saturday, August 14-16 at 8:00 pm; and Sunday, August 10 and 17 at 3:00 pm at Court Square Theater in downtown Harrisonburg. Get your tickets here!

This same time, years previous: babies, boobs, boo-boos, and bye-byes, the end, a birthday present for my brother, gingerbread, dam good blackberry pie, caramelized cherry tomatoes, dimply plum cake, Indian-style corn, tomato bread pudding, down in the peach pits, hamming up Luke, and seasonal regret.  

My parents have been slogging away at finishing up their new house. They’re down to the floors, now. It’s slow-going, but the place is stunning. They show up on our doorstep every 24 hours or so to mooch off our internet, food, carpentry knowledge (my husband’s, not mine), but most of the time, they’re up at the property, their noses to the grindstone.

Now, as it turns out, their woods are full of blackberry bushes, so for a while there my mother turned her attention from oiling floors to picking berries. One day she invited my children to pick with her. I dropped them off with promises of blackberry pie ringing in their ears. The children returned with enough berries for a pie and a quart leftover for a cobbler: blueberry and raspberry, I think—my mother already dubbed my future creation “Black-and-Blue Cobbler.”

I was baking the promised pie on Saturday afternoon when Suburban Correspondent came to visit. It felt kinda cruel, baking a pie and not giving her any. But it would’ve still been hot and therefore too soupy. Besides, there was chocolate chip cookies and mint tea. Though—full disclosure—we ended up talking so long that the pie probably had plenty of time to set. But I kind of forgot about it by then. In fact, I kinda forgot about everything, so lost in conversation was I. I didn’t even think to feed them supper.

A word about meeting blogger-friends. Earlier this month, I met half of Mama Congo from, well…The Congo. Then, like I said, there was Suburban Correspondent from Suburbia. Mavis from out West pops in every now and then (last time she brought me a fifty-pound sack of potatoes from Lancaster). And this weekend we get to host the gang from Thrift At Home again. It’s so special—kind of magical, in a way—when virtual friendships cross the line to face-to-face ones. (I was going to say “real” ones but more and more, the line between virtual and real is looking pretty ragged.)

Anyway, the next afternoon I called up my parents and asked if we could come over with pie and milk. They said yes (because they are not dummies). Dad made coffee in their outdoor kitchen, and I got to have a tour of the place. Tours involve removing our shoes, standing on old rags, and then slishing across the floor, sopping up excess floor oil. It’s complicated. Mom showed off her dish-washing set-up (running water!) and I went around back to check out their outdoor sleeping quarters.

Then we ate the pie.
In ten minutes flat.
And that was that.
The end. Goodbye.

This same time, years previous: joy, blueberry torn-biscuit cobbler, and chocolate beet cake.