In late May there was a bunch of mugwort, picked in Prospect Park.
There was a pork jowel. I decided to turn it into guanciale, with mugwort, and spicebush.
I hung the pork from the cathedral ceilings, where it had nice airflow and some company, and where it upset esteemed readers, like Clark.
And then last night, after two months, it was time.
I wanted to make a very simple pizza, using sourdough. Slices of the pork. Sage from the terrace. And a flurry of fine parmesan.
So that's what I did.
And we ate the best pizza ever, on the day that Robin Williams died.