I went through a phase this summer where I couldn’t stop making crispy spinach pizza, but I had no plans to tell you about for a couple reasons, the first of which is it’s absolutely hideous. It looks like someone melted Oscar the Grouch onto a pizza dough and little I did improved this, not making it round, nor rectangular, in good light nor light so dim that maybe you wouldn’t notice it at all.
Crispy spinach pizza isn’t its official name (that’s, in fact, The Popeye) but in our household dish names are marketing devices and heaps of spinach are, understandably, a hard sell. It’s not much easier with adults. Yes, I know many of us enjoy green vegetables and volunteer to eat them on the regular, but even as one of those people, I felt nothing but panic and dread the first time I saw this unsettlingly large pile of charred-edge greens and no sign of cheese or any other anchors of joy coming across the room to me at the late Co., and knew I’d ordered all wrong.