Mrs. DiTomas’ White Pizza
When I was dating the woman I was to marry, I’d travel frequently from Denver to Cleveland, her hometown. In those days and for this Rocky Mountain fella, Cleveland’s food was figuratively much further than 1,300 miles away.
There I had my first lax, latke, half-done pickle, knish, bialy and sesame seeded bagel, courtesy of Penny’s family’s many Jewish friends. (On my first trip back home, I bought a red tartan fabric-sided suitcase and filled it with as much food from Corky & Lenny’s Restaurant Deli as it would hold.)
The parents of one of Penny’s close friends, Marie DiTomas,
traced their roots to Abruzzo, Italy, and that only a generation or two back. Each year, Mr. DiTomas (his birth name, Americo, came from the new land) made 200 gallons of wine in his basement, the exact allocation allowed under the Volstead Act.
In that same basement, Mrs. Philomena DiTomas had a second kitchen, its stovetop reserved for the annual putting up of buckets of tomato sauce — and for the cooking of special meals for special visitors.
Such as guys from Colorado dating their daughter’s friend.
All the length of the basement room, Mr. and Mrs. DiTomas laid out this enormously long table for 20-plus people — it was like a two-fer Da Vinci “Last Supper” — and out paraded the deliciousness from Mrs. DiTomas’ downstairs kitchen.
This being my first Italian feast in the Cleveland way, I thought that the first course, a mound of homemade noodles that Mrs. DiTomas placed in front of me, was, you know, it.
Dinner. All of dinner. The way a plate of pasta was dinner in Denver.
And, so honored, I ate the whole of it, even if it was as big as the timpano from the movie “Big Night.”
Big mistake. Because then came the meats: veal chops, sausages, pieces of beef. Then the salad. Then the pizzelle, scented with anise and each made by Mrs. DiTomas the day before.
And all around the table, “fingers” of what Mrs. DiTomas called her “white pizza,” her focaccia-like flatbread. Everything, of course, was beyond scrumptious; I could taste the care of her hands in every bite of every thing.
But I had to walk around the block after taking the hill of spaghetti, and a further walk after the meats, all burped along with another new Italian-American find, Brioschi, a sort of Italo-Alka Seltzer.
Mrs. DiTomas gave me the recipe for her white pizza soon after the big feast and I have made it dozens of times since. It’s very moist, more so than any commercial focaccia could be, and it’s also slightly sweet.
I love it. I hope you do, too.
Mrs. DiTomas’ White Pizza
Makes 1 pizza, 18 x 13 inches
Ingredients
1 package active dry yeast (not rapid rise)
1 teaspoon plus 3 tablespoons sugar, separated
½ cup plus 2 cups lukewarm water (100F), separated 4 cups all-purpose flour 1½ teaspoons salt 3 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for final baking
Directions
Proof the yeast and 1 teaspoon sugar in ½ cup lukewarm water for 10 minutes.
In a large bowl, add the flour, 3 tablespoons sugar, and the salt and mix together well. Add the proofed yeast mixture, the olive oil and 2 cups lukewarm water, stirring to combine. The dough will be wet, not unlike a quick bread dough, less sturdy than a traditional firm bread dough.
Let rise, covered in a breathable kitchen towel, in a warmish place for 1 hour. Punch down and mix again; let rise another hour. Pour into an oiled 18 x 13 x 1-inch baking sheet pan, scraping out the bowl, to a thickness of between ½ to Minch thick. (There may be more than enough dough; do not exceed ¾ of an inch in thickness.) Let rise another 1 hour, loosely covered with a floured towel or nothing at all.
When ready to bake, heat oven to 375 degrees. Take the risen bread and make impressions all over the top with your fingertips, 25-30 in all. Sprinkle with salt and pepper (and herbs, if desired) to your taste; a heavy salting is OK. Sprinkle with more olive oil.
Bake ½ hour or until golden brown. Cool for five minutes; turn out onto cooling rack for further cooling. When ready to serve, slice or cut into long “fingers.”