Pizza alla Norma (Eggplant Pizza)

When I was little, I used to make my own pizzas.  Slap me some tomato sauce on a slice of sandwich bread.  Sprinkle on some white-colored cheese.  Toast it.  BAM!  Pizza.  You're welcome.

Actually, things got pretty bad with my "pizza-making."  Think ketchup on Wonder Bread with a yellow square of American cheese on top.  I made this as breakfast on Mother's Day for my dear, sweet mother.  Even brought it in on a lego board breakfast tray accompanied with a Capri-Sun and package of Fruit Gushers.  I know we expats think we have it bad in Korea when we find corn sprinkled in our pizza, but my mom nearly vomited when she ate my rendition of "pizza."  This is when I first learned the prudence of Papa John's maxim: better ingredients, better pizza.

Like anything, master the basics before stretching the boundaries.  Have you seen Picasso's earlier works?  They actually look like something.  So he showed everyone he can paint, then he went crazy and showed them what painting is going to be from now on.  I am not a Picasso of paint or pizza, but I don't make pizza with squeeze bottles anymore.  To a degree, I think I've graduated to a level where I can be somewhat interpretive with pizza.

Mario Batali's Pizza Margherita with Homemade Mozzarella

After failing four times, I've made mozzarella.  Thank god.  I was beginning to get pretty sick of blaring Beyonce's "Broken-Hearted Girl" while subjecting my sister and boyfriend to my sulky verbal abuse.

Don't judge me.

Losing a mozzarella baby is the single greatest loss a man can feel.  By the same logic, birthing a mozzarella baby is a pretty euphoric experience.  (My life isn't sad.)  I felt like friggin' Tom Hanks when he creates fire in Castaway.  To celebrate my laureate success, I feasted on my mozzarella in its most glorious manifestation - pizza.