I love sharing a meal. Any meal. I mmm and a loved one mmms right back at me.

Let’s talk breakfast. Let’s talk casual weekday breakfast.

I lived with my mom for 17 years before moving away to the big city to study and to flee our rather tensed relationship. Oddly enough, I have no memories of meeting my mom over breakfast on weekdays. I do remember the weekends’ festivities though : crepes, maple syrup, molasses and tons and tons of cow’s milk would make me mmm over and over again.

I remember reading at the breakfast table : the peanut butter jar, the jam jar, the cereal box, the placemat, anything I could get my eyes on. I remember getting bored out of my mind after reading the cereal box for the hundredth time, but my eyes just couldn’t leave the dang box alone. Snap! Crackle! Pop! Cric! Crac! Croc! Pif! Paf! Puf! Pim! Pum! Pam! Wikipedia rocks!

When I turned twelve, my mom’s boyfriend moved in. I remember meeting him over breakfast. I can’t say if we talked or not, but we did sit together. When he moved in, we also started receiving the newspaper on our doorstep early in the morning. I started to read the agony column and never got enough of it. I learned all about erectile dysfunction, date rape and schizophrenia, and never lost my appetite.

I lived all by my lonesome for a few years while waiting for the prince of persia to gather up his caravan and come meet me across the deep blue ocean. I’d then have breakfast with my very own color tv. The tv doesn’t mmm all that much, but it’s still a great companion.

If you read this post, you know that the prince of persia isn’t a breakfast kind of lad. Right after we met, I had great expectations of us kissing over pancakes and french toasts, holding hands while having coffee, reading side by side as the sun would rise. I gave up that fantasy a long time ago. I can hear my heart squeaking as I write it down for the whole world to read. I guess some dreams just don’t ever come true…

Nowadays, I make a point of enjoying breakfast with the little king on weekdays and weekends. We sit, contemplate each other’s eye color and chit chat about trains and dinosaurs.

The little king’s favorite weekday morning treat is stealing my breakfast. His second favorite treat is raisin bread. The little king thinks raisin bread is very very yummy. “J’adore ça, le pain aux raisins!” he claims.

The thing is, mommy hates feeding her pride and joy this delightful but nutrient-empty bread.

Mommy believes food should ALWAYS be delightful AND nutrient-full.

This week, for the FMP, Melissa, from the faux martha, decided we’d all take a shot at bittman’s real whole wheat bread (or at his mostly whole wheat baguettes). Therefore, I decided to try and make some delightful and nutrient-full raisin bread for the little king.

I followed bittman’s recipe, which you can look up in Melissa’s post, substituted one cup buckwheat flour for one cup of the whole wheat flour, and added 1 cup raisins in step 2.

The bread turned out yummy and delightful and nutrient-full. The little king’s happy and so is mommy. Thanx Melissa!

If you’re looking for something to read over breakfast while your loved one is in the shower, stop by the FMP website to check out some more delightful bread recipes.

Why do you drool over a cooking show? Is it the pretty plate? The inventive combination of ingredients? The mouthwatering description of the flavours? The story behind the recipe? All of the above?

What makes you say : “OMG, that’s the best pizza I ever ate!?” Is it the finest cheese paired with toppings handpicked at the farmers’ market? Or is it the processed cheese paired with good memories?

Here’s the story of the best pizza I ever ate.

Down in ancient persia, at flying carpet riding distance of my prince’s castle, stood this small pizza place called L’Azur.

Azur is french for sky blue. Back then, my romance was sky blue.

So there it was, that pizza place, waiting for the prince of persia and I to fall more deeply in love, as if that could be possible.

There was a terrace in the front, but we’d always sit inside because the prince doesn’t like to be watched by his people while he eats.

There was this table with the prince’s name written in golden letters. It was our table, though it wasn’t actually a table. It was a tiny sky blue shelf with two sky blue stools.

And there was this mirror. A huge HD mirror where I spent hours contemplating my growing love. I fell in love with the prince just by watching him smile, and walk, and breathe, and be. But I think I might have fell in love with love watching the both of us through that greasy mirror.

So there we sat right after we’d order our usual : “wahda thon-fromage, cabar la, barcha zitoun, aich khouia”. If you can’t read ancient persian magic spells, I’ll translate it for you if you promise not to use it to do evil. It means : “one tuna-cheese, no capers, lots of olives, thanks bro”.

There we sat eating that pizza as if it was the last meal we’d ever have, dreaming out loud about the kids we’d have or life after death. After we were finished, I’d carefully lick my fingers while the prince would go wash his hand in a tiny white sink. Then, he’d have a cigarette and the whole place would become foggy with smoke. Sometimes a genie would appear. Back then, I’d always get my wish.

Since we left ancient persia for postmodern montreal, my romance has turned to a rather grayish blue. With time, I’ve learned to enjoy that color. Maybe not as much as sky blue, nothing will ever beat sky blue, but grayish blue is a beautiful color.

In that grayish blue sky of mine, the prince of persia goes out with his friends on sunday night. I’m some kind of a desperate housewife even though the show isn’t on tonight (crap!).

Now, here’s the story of the desperate housewife pizza.

Lately, I’ve been dreaming of a vegeterian hawaian pizza. I’ve dreamed it up sweet, and spicy, and salty. It would’ve taken me months to make that desperate housewife daydream come true if it wasn’t for Niki, from salt & pepper, who chose this week’s recipes for the Food Matters project : no-work mostly whole wheat pizza dough and topping pizza, the Food Matters way.

As far as the dough is concerned, I was faithfull to bittman’s recipe, which you can take a look at in Niki’s post. This easy as 1,2,3 dough felt like a cloud in my mouth, just like the clouds in my grayish blue life. I topped the dough with some spicy grape tomato sauce (recipe follows), sunny fresh pineapple chunks (the sun stil shines in the bakground of my grayish blue romance), mellow jalapeno havarty chesse and deliciously salty asiago cheese.

The pizza turned out pretty tasty. It was all I dreamt it up to be : sweet, spicy and salty. I’d say it’s a very personal pizza. I’m not sure if anyone but me could enjoy it. But if you’re ever home alone on a sunday night, you just might want to give it a try!

For more pizza stories, check out the other FMP members’ take on bittman’s pizza dough and toppings.

spicy grape tomato pizza sauce (print)

1 + 1/2 pint grape tomatoes

salt

pepper

red pepper flakes

olive oil

balsamic vinegar

Toss 1 pint of grape tomatoes in a baking dish with salt, pepper, red pepper flakes, to taste, and olive oil. Roast in the oven at 350 for 45 minutes.

In a food processor, combine the roasted tomatoes and their juices, 1/2 pint of raw raisin tomatoes and a splash of balsamic vinegar. Blend until smooth. Adjust seasoning.

sauce à pizza épicée aux tomates raisins (imprimer)

1 + 1/2 pinte sèche américaine de tomates raisins

sel

poivre

flocons de piment séchés

huile d’olive

vinaigre balsamique

Mettre une pinte de tomates raisins dans un plat allant au four avec du sel, du poivre, des flocons de piment, au goût, et de l’huile d’olive. Enfourner à 350 pendant 45 minutes.

Au robot culinaire, réduire en purée les tomates cuites et leur jus, 1/2 pinte de tomates raisins crues et un filet de vinaigre balsamique. Ajuster l’assaisonnement.