If you could work anywhere for a day, what would you choose? 6 Writers. 6 Jobs.  6 Adventures

Mommy Made Dinner

Erin Stiebel

Another day, another dinner to cook. So I decided to make pizza.

Rivka, my boss-for-the-day, greeted me with a huge smile and handed me my uniform — the coveted Jerusalem Pizza T-shirt and a blue apron — and introduced me to my new coworkers: Matt, Caleb, and Achilles. These poor men had been tasked with training me for the day and would be working with a novice pizza maker. Lucky for them, though, I regularly cook five different dinners each night because nobody will eat the same thing, so I’m a pro at multitasking in the kitchen.

Underestimating my skill set, Matt began to teach me how to fold pizza boxes. Baruch Hashem I was a quick study and soon graduated to removing yad soledes bo pizza pans from the oven with tongs. When the pizza made its way safely into the box, everyone breathed a loud sigh of relief.

Detroit is home to the greatest pizza in the world,* and Jerusalem Pizza is famous for its family-feel, where everyone is greeted by name and predicted pizza order. It also boasts an out-of-the-box menu with highlights like cholent pizza, BBQ chicken pizza, sephardic calzones, and veggie chili dogs. In this safe space I’ll admit that my kids prefer Jerusalem Pizza over my homemade version, so when offered the chance to spend a day working in a different industry, I jumped at the opportunity to up my pizza game.

It was Wednesday afternoon, which meant that things were relatively quiet. After getting a tour of the facility, asking a million questions, and observing the professionals, Matt suggested that I make myself a pizza for lunch. Umm, yes please. It was time to learn the tricks of the trade.

Matt pointed toward the various size pizza pans that had been prefilled with dough, and told me to take whichever one I wanted. I grabbed a personal pizza pan and got to work. As this was my debut in professional pizza making, I wanted my first pizza to be memorable. I used the spiked roller to get rid of air bubbles in the dough and carefully placed the crust preserver into the pan. (These are probably not the official names of the contraptions, but you get the idea.) I scooped half a ladleful of pizza sauce and, trying to mimic Caleb’s artistic flair, spread the sauce in circular motions with the back of the ladle. Gingerly and precisely, I shook out the cheese from the designated cheese sprinkling cup, (another technical term) so that it would be evenly distributed, but it clumped in the middle, requiring further attention. Minor detail.

I shifted my focus to the vast array of toppings, curious about an unidentifiable crumbly orange topping that I probably would never have tried from the menu. Feeling adventurous, I placed a handful of the orange crumble on my pizza, sprinkled the secret pizza spice that supposedly goes on all pizzas, and carefully placed the pan on the left side of one of the three giant ovens. I was eagerly awaiting my pizza when one of my coworkers made a passing comment about my choice of topping. “Love that you like kishke pizza! It’s my favorite, too.” Kishke pizza. Kishke. Pizza. How did I miss that? Verdict is still out on if I'll order the Kishke again, but it was better than I imagined.

After successfully making my own pizza, I felt invincible and was determined to try doing everything else. Extra well-done Jerusalem breadsticks, check. Preparing the soup, check. Taking someone’s order at the cash register, check. Slicing a giant pie of pizza evenly, check minus. Tuna sandwich… what’s the opposite of check? My humble apologies to the customer whose bread I hacked because I couldn’t cut through the loaf evenly. Hope your tuna didn’t fall out the bottom.

I learned to work the dough-flattening machine, attempted to toss aforementioned flat dough in the air, watched them refill the soft-serve ice cream dispenser, and discovered the biggest container of oil I'd ever seen. I realized I’d been so busy learning the ropes in the kitchen that I had yet to work the front of the store, something I’d been greatly looking forward to. As a teenager, I had dreamed of working as a cashier in a grocery store. Outside the self-checkout at Target, today was probably the closest I was going to get.

I hovered near the front of the store to help take orders and obviously, to socialize. What better place to see all crossroads of the Jewish community than at the checkout of the kosher pizza store? While people seemed confused to see me on the other side of the counter in my blue apron, they greeted me with a smile and placed their orders without batting an eyelash.

That is, everyone except my friend’s middle school son who obviously reported back to his mother that I was working at the pizza store. “I’m telling you, Mrs. Stiebel was working there!” She casually dismissed the possibility, explaining that I was probably just there hanging out. In a Jerusalem T-shirt and blue apron. He accepted it and moved on.

Around 3:45, my husband and daughter popped into the store. It’s unclear if their visit was intended to show support or to take incriminating photos , but either way, it prompted me to come up with the best idea of the day. Instead of returning home after a long day of work and having to think about what to serve for dinner, I would make dinner at work .

I used my newfound skills to enter my order into the computer, complete with all of the kids’ favorites, then swiped my credit card and watched as the order tickets popped up in the hot food prep station. I bolted over there to call dibs on the order before Caleb got to work, and began prepping a medium BBQ chicken pizza without red onions, a medium plain pizza, two orders of cheese sticks, and an order of cinnamon sticks, a treat reserved only for special occasions. While the orders baked in the oven, I skillfully folded the three pizza boxes that would house my masterpieces.

The pizzas were the first ones out of the oven, so I grabbed the tongs and carried the hot pans to the boxes, carefully transferring the pizzas. Two down. Next came the cinnamon sticks, which are essentially pizza dough covered in melted butter, cinnamon sugar, and an icing drizzle. Let’s just say I may have overdone it on the icing, but they were only more delicious. Lastly, out came the cheese sticks, which I painted with melted garlic butter, sprinkled with parmesan, wrapped in foil, and placed in a bag. Though it sounds simple enough, it seems from the multiple oil stains on the other boxes and bags that perhaps I was overeager with the garlic butter as well.

With my order ready to go, I returned my apron to the back and thanked my coworkers for their patience. They told me I could come back and sub anytime I wanted, though after being on my feet for so long, I think I’ll take a pass and give them the business instead. I grabbed my order, headed home, and walked in the door announcing, “Mommy made dinner!”

*Rivaled only by Nut House Pizza of Silver Spring, MD. Hometown loyalties, you understand.