Alright, so let me tell you about this chimichurri tomato pizza. It wasn’t even on the menu, not in my head anyway. I’d had one of those days, you know? The kind where everything you touch just sort of… crumbles. Tried to fix a leaky tap, ended up with a mini-flood. Then, my brilliant idea for dinner, some fancy pasta thing, went south fast. The sauce split, looked like something the cat dragged in. I was about ready to just order takeout, felt like a total failure in my own kitchen.
The Spark of Something Different
Then, staring into the fridge, feeling sorry for myself, I saw a bunch of ripe tomatoes. Beautiful, red, just begging to be used. And in the herb keeper, a load of parsley and oregano looking a bit sad. My mind just went… chimichurri. Yeah, I know, chimichurri, that Argentinian stuff, on a pizza? And an Italian style pizza at that? Sounds like sacrilege to some, probably. But my day was already a write-off, so what did I have to lose?
I figured, screw it. I’m doing this. Pulled out the flour, yeast, all the usual suspects for a decent pizza dough. I find kneading dough pretty therapeutic, honestly. Punching and stretching it out, it’s like all the day’s frustrations just melt away into the gluten. This time, the dough came together like a dream, soft, pliable. Maybe my luck was turning.
Getting Down to Business
While the dough was doing its rising thing, I got started on the chimichurri. This wasn’t some precise, measured-out affair. I just started chopping. Loads of fresh parsley, a good handful of oregano, garlic – lots of garlic, because why not? A bit of chili flake for a kick, olive oil, red wine vinegar. Whisked it all together. The smell alone started to lift my spirits. It was vibrant, fresh, a world away from my earlier sauce disaster.
Next, the tomatoes. I just sliced them, not too thick, not too thin. Kept it simple. I wasn’t aiming for a Neapolitan masterpiece here, just something good, something real. No fancy San Marzano tomatoes flown in on a velvet pillow. Just good, honest tomatoes from the local shop.
- Rolled out the dough. Didn’t go for a perfect circle. Who cares? Rustic is good.
- Slathered a thin layer of the chimichurri on the base. Not too much, didn’t want it to be a soggy mess.
- Arranged the tomato slices on top.
- A bit more chimichurri drizzled over the tomatoes, because you can never have too much of a good thing, right?
- And cheese. Just some mozzarella I had. Tore it up, scattered it around.
Shoved it into a screaming hot oven. I always crank my oven up as high as it’ll go for pizza. Gets that nice crispy crust. The waiting is always the hardest part. The kitchen started to fill up with this amazing aroma – garlic, herbs, baking bread, sweet tomatoes. Completely different from the smell of defeat from earlier.
The Moment of Truth
When I pulled it out, it looked fantastic. The crust was golden and bubbly, the tomatoes were slightly roasted and juicy, and the chimichurri had melded with everything. It wasn’t perfectly round, some bits were more charred than others, but it looked alive. It looked like something made with a bit of heart, not just assembled.
And the taste? Oh man. The sharpness of the chimichurri, the sweetness of the tomatoes, the chewy, crispy crust. It just worked. It was messy, I got chimichurri on my chin, but it was one of the best pizzas I’d made in ages. Not because it was technically perfect, but because it came from a place of just winging it, of salvaging a bad day.
So yeah, chimichurri tomato pizza, Italian-ish style. Maybe not traditional, maybe a bit weird, but sometimes the best things come from throwing the rulebook out the window and just going with what feels right. Cleared my head, filled my stomach. Can’t ask for much more than that, can you?
