RECIPE: In thin crust I trust | Flatbread with Gorgonzola, onions and arugula

In my non-cook's world, the phrase "homemade pizza" used to inspire visions of naked Boboli pizza crusts, packaged sauce, and a vague sense of "hands on" that wasn't really all that hands on, but was at least a step up from the pizza rolls that propelled me through junior high.

And while it was far from homemade, I could at least express my teenage angst by crafting anarchy symbols with the pepperoni.

Now I harbor a sincere appreciation for good pizza - and democracy. (Our list of 9 Portland-area places for nearly perfect pizza highlights some of the finest.)

So when my hungry eyes spotted a recipe for Flatbread with Gorgonzola, Caramelized Onions & Arugula on food-porn website www.gojee.com, I decided to stop fantasizing about eating it and actually eat it. Of course, I'd have to make it first.

The dough is simply made by combining 3/4 cup water and 1/2 teaspoon dry active yeast (and allowing the yeast to dissolve, approximately 3 to 4 minutes). The blend is added to a mixture of 2 cups all-purpose flour and 1/2 teaspoon salt, kneaded and rolled into balls.

After rolling them thin (but not transparently thin) the crusts get tossed into the oven (pre-heated to 500 degrees) for 4 to 5 minutes or until the edges begin to brown.

While I was determined to adhere to the arugula, Gorgonzola, and onion recipe (because I'd drooled over that specific recipe for days and also because straying away from the instructions still scares me a little) my flatbread-making cohorts Nichole and Sam went to town on the toppings.

The pizzas go back into the oven for 5 to 7 minutes, or until the cheese melts, or until you deem it done, or until the smoke alarm goes off. In our case,the alarm never sounded, although some rogue Gorgonzola did start smoking.

But when that fine flatbread was born out of the oven and I lifted it gently to the stove top with oven-mitted hands and joy in my heart, I knew something unforgettable had just entered the world. I knew I loved it the moment I laid eyes on it. And I knew I was going to eat it until it was gone - every crumb of the crust, every melted chunk of the cheese - until only my memory of it remained.

Sam's flatbread amalgamation of peppers, tomatoes and arugula flaunted its bright colors and flaky crust.

The Gorgonzola, arugula and onion flatbread was a success. As were Sam and Nichole's "we don't need no stinkin' recipe" pizzas. With a crust like that, you can't go wrong.

What's the French word for "alien brains"? Roasted Brussels sprouts

I remember the Brussels sprouts of my youth.

I remember they looked like little green alien brains, probably squeezed from the oblong heads of a hundred pint-sized extraterrestrials like so many soybeans from an edamame pod.

As a kid, I was clearly into flights of food-related fancy. What I wasn't into: alien brains. So on my plate there were peas and green beans and cauliflower, and not a whole lot of experimentation.

Of course time has a way of changing our mind about things. Our mothers like to call it "maturing."

Whatever the impetus, Brussels sprouts are no longer on my Fling From Plate list or my List of Things to Obliterate Once I Acquire a Laser Powerful Enough to Obliterate Things. (Sleep with one eye open, sauerkraut. You're still on it.) In fact, I order them on purpose.

This weekend I ordered them at Portland's Petit Jacqueline, a French bistro serving things like choucroute garnie and fluke meunière. I don't speak a speck of French, aside from the single phrase I picked up from those Merde. Il pleut umbrellas, but I'll remember what choux de bruxelles means from here on out: Brussels sprouts. Just don't ask me to pronounce it. (I studied Spanish in school, see. It was a fortuitous decision that today allows me to inform my Spanish-speaking friends that "Me gusto bailar" before inquiring after the location of the bathroom.)

I enjoyed the Palm beer. I loved the gnocchi. But the Brussels sprouts, they were inspirational. Within 36 hours I was at the grocery store digging my hands into the Brussels sprouts bin with the same crazed abandon usually reserved for a burglar's late-night heists at the jewelry counter.

I also found a simple four-ingredient roasted Brussels sprouts recipe that even the most stove shy among us could manage.

Olive oil, salt, pepper mixed together, Brussels sprouts coated, onto a pan and into the big square cooker for 35 minutes at 400 degrees.

Facile!

Everybody wants their own bacon: Pasta with asparagus, pine nuts and something called pancetta

Sure, we all knew about Canada. They made no secret of their special brand of bacon - a cut of pork taken from the back instead of the sides or belly, like the kind embraced by Americans. Our streaky bacon took no offense to the Canadian rival - who can stay angry at such good-natured neighbors? Especially when their bacon isn't as good?

Then I found out about Italy.

Perhaps I've been distracted by thoughts of red sauces and pasta-making machines that clamp to the counter top and churn out miles of noodles that I could drape over everything - the kitchen chairs, the towel rack, the shrubs. (The thought has also occurred to me that, in lieu of owning a pasta maker, the paper shredder at the office might make an ingenious stand-in.)

But Italy has it's own bacon adaptation. It's called pancetta.

I encountered the stuff when researching easy recipe ideas on myrecipes.com. The recipe: pasta with asparagus, pancetta and pine nuts.

I dig pasta because it's forgiving, like a grandparent who still thinks you're a gem of a kid even though you steal all the quarters from his change jar every time you visit. Pasta doesn't usually give you a hard time. And asparagus? I'm familiar with the stuff. As for the pine nuts, I happen to already have some in the cabinet. The recipe sounded within my grasp...even, dare I say it, easy. It was like a sign from the gods of stove-top cooking.

Until pancetta.

Is that a cheese? A meat? The word used to describe cooked human liver?

So I asked a coworker. And I Googled it. And I inquired with the dude at the grocery store deli counter. And then I got me some pancetta.

Pancetta: Italian bacon. It's pork belly meat that is salt cured. And unlike the other version we love so well, it's not smoked and is generally sold rolled up.

When I prepared it for the pasta recipe, it crisped up in a handful of minutes ("Arrange pancetta on jelly-roll pan. Bake at 475° for 6 minutes" I was instructed). It was also, I thought, a heck of a lot more flavorful than the bacon I'm used to - including the locally raised pound of bacon I was gifted last year from a friend. (Bacon: an always-welcome gift.)

And I was right, the dish was easy. Even better, it was edible. Not just edible, it was good. Of course, I never did figure out what jelly-roll pan is. I trust it's just another name for "whatever tired baking dish you already own," kind of like how "meat tenderizer" is just another name for "hammer."

Now, if any other countries have some bacon they'd like to tell me about...