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!

Poor, poor poblano. A recipe attempt and a somber skinning

I don't have much experience skinning things. Well, maybe a knee here or there. And I have peeled grapes with my fingers because I read a book in elementary school that said peeled grapes felt like eyeballs. And I really wanted to feel eyeballs.

But I'm not in the habit of acquiring animal hides or the scalps of my enemies. And my neighbors probably appreciate that. On the downside, my lack of skinning skills means I did a tremendous disservice to four undeserving poblano chiles this weekend.

The recipe, stuffed poblanos, aptly called for four poblanos to be (careful, this might surprise you) stuffed.

Preparing the innards was easy: a blend of red potatoes, onions, red bell peppers, garlic, oregano and other stuff I read from a list and prepared according to the directions.

I can follow directions.

So I tossed the four chiles under the broiler, as directed, and let the skins blacken, as directed, then placed them in resealable baggies to steam for 10 minutes, as directed. Then out they came, softened from their sauna, and I began to de-skin the things, which is apparently what you do with a poblano because the skin is too waxy and chewy.

According to the recipe, "the skin is easy to peel away with a paring knife."

According to me, it isn't.

The chiles were listless after their steaming. No longer the robust poblanos I rounded up from the grocery store, they were spiritless shadows of their former selves. They tore like wet paper at the slightest touch.

I tried to be gentle, but the chiles disintegrated under my care. My poblano confidence sagged and suffered too.

Ultimately the stuffing became the topping, with the chiles lying prostrate on the baking sheet like cartoon characters crushed under the weight of a falling anvil (or in this case, a plummeting pile of potatoes).

They didn't look much like the picture. But then, what ever does?

And while my mother's not known for giving me good cooking advice, she has smartly said (as I peered down on a misshapen pancake or grilled cheese with the burnt part cut off), "Oh, just eat it. Your tummy won't know the difference."

And she's right, it usually doesn't.

A few days too late I discovered this handy video showing the proper way to remove the skin from a poblano. Turns out my attack was a little on the aggressive side. Simply peeling away most of the skin with your fingers is sufficient, as opposed to the high-octane chemical peel I performed.

Should I meet a poblano again one day, I'll be kinder.