Last weekend, we did what any sensible people would do when the sun makes an unexpected appearance in Britain: fled the city and headed for the countryside. My dad’s place – all leafy hedgerows, quiet lanes and dogs underfoot – was a welcome reprieve from our usual postcode. And, crucially, it has a pizza oven. A lockdown purchase he absolutely didn’t need and now, he claims, couldn’t live without. The kind that demands both dedication and semolina.
That afternoon, with the dough already proving and the wine chilling in the fridge, we headed out for a long walk. By the time we got back, we were hungry enough to forgo finesse – not that finesse was ever our strong suit. My dad learnt the hard way during his first attempts that semolina is essential if you don’t want to drop an entire pizza face-down on the floor. I should know. I was there, holding the wine and trying not to laugh.
