Gerzsi

At the end of summer the river widens into a big quiet lake, and the inn’s owner keeps a little house there with an outdoor pizza oven. Chef Tamás gave us a day off. I sent a message upstream, and Granny Birch and my sister Twig paddled all the way down for pizza night.

I wanted everything perfect. So I decided the pizza oven needed a proper stone base.

A beaver does not do “a few bricks on the patio.” A beaver does foundations. By noon I had a level, mortared plinth, a drainage channel, and, for reasons nobody asked about, a small dam across the garden hose. Granny Birch inspected it and said it was the best thing I had built since I left home. Twig said it was the only thing I had built since I left home.

The first pizza went in at seven. The top was blistered and gorgeous. The bottom was pale and soft. I had lit the flame but hadn’t waited for the stone.

“The air gets hot fast,” said Chef Tamás, who had come along “just to supervise” and had already eaten two slices. “The stone takes longer. Give it the full preheat, and a minute or two to recover between pizzas. And get everything ready before the first one goes in. At this heat, the oven isn’t the slow part. You are.”

Pizza number two was perfect. By pizza number nine, Twig admitted I might actually be a cook. I also have a plan for a second, larger plinth. “For the dough,” I said. The dough does not need a plinth.

Gerzsi and his family are made up. Chef Tamás and his lessons are real.