“I hold my breath as I take it out”
In her weekly column, Maddie Grigg trades rural Dorset for south-west France.
EVERY time we come to France, the dogs and I have a tiny little space in the car while the rest of the vehicle is taken up with “stuff”.
This time it was a woodfired pizza oven that was taking up the back seat.
At home, Mr Grigg’s built his own pizza oven out of clay from a local field.
We call the whole thing “Jabba the Pizza Hutt” after the repulsive character from one of the “Star Wars” films.
Rather than build one here, it was recommended to Mr Grigg that he might be better off with a portable pizza oven that can be wheeled out like a barbecue.
So we came down with it, the pizza oven’s legs almost sticking in my neck at one point, until we stopped the car and made things safe.
And today, after testing it out on each other, we have guests round for lunch.
Mr Grigg loves cooking but he’s not so good at tidying up after himself.
This time, however, he’s excelled himself and his makeshift preparation area in the barn is pristine.
I’ve made coleslaw and potato salad in advance.
I also have a large meringue sitting in a cold oven after I cooked it the day before.
Never one to keep things simple, Mr Grigg has devised a menu of five pizzas, each with different ingredients and a name.
The idea is that the four guests, which includes Norman from next door, Josephine from across the road, will have a little bit each to try.
He fires up the pizza and smoke billows out of the chimney.
It’s not long before Mr Grigg and his assembly line are running.
The pizzas are coming thick and fast and shared around the table.
At one point there is a wail of “Maddie!” from my husband, to which I dutifully respond.
“Won’t be a moment,” I tell the hungry guests.
I go inside the barn. He’s looking at a curledup pizza on a piece of wood.
It’s meant to be a “Hot and Spicy Three Billy Goats Rough”.
“What happened to that one?” I whisper.
“I made it with the dough I’d put in the freezer,” he says. “But the dough didn’t have time to warm up properly before I cooked it and now it’s shrunk.”
We both stare at this thing in front of us.
“We might get away with it if we call it a calzone,” I suggest. “But it looks more like a pasty.”
Mr Grigg once had a nightmare about an unfortunately located pasty that had to be surgically removed, so he gives a shudder.
“Why don’t we keep it back?” I say. “We can always have it ourselves for lunch tomorrow.”
“But will there be enough to go round for six?”
I think four decent-sized pizzas between us will be fine, especially with the salads, cheesee to follow and my meringue.
So we keep the “experiment” to ourselves and I bask in his reflected glory.
The guests marvel at the pizzas, suggesting he might like to go into business.
Then the cheese turns up and I almost forget that I have to get the meringue out of the oven and turn it into a pavlova.
I go into the kitchen, hunt for the cream and work my magic.
The pavlova looks like it’s going to break when the fruit and the cream are added.
I hold my breath as I take it out to the table, praying that I won’t trip up over Edgar along the way.
But the pavlova arrives at the table intact and is devoured on glass plates I bought for next to nothing at a charity shop.
“That was delicious,” Josephine says. “The pizzas, pavlova – fantastic.”
At one point there is a wail of “Maddie!” from my husband, to which I respond