“We slice at dawn fueled by leftover pizza and day-old jitter juice.” The guilty pleasures of a cheap and secret breakfast.

It’s early. The gray light of pre-dawn beckons. I could and should do a brisk, 30-minute walk through the neighborhood.
 
I step out into the near-dark on the back porch and stare down the stump-tail cat that’s been hanging around the yard. He splits.

There’s a wet blat of a flop drop of rain onto my scalp. The sky is getting ready to open.
 
 
Inside! Quickly! To the leftovers!
 
I’m often up at 5 AM, though not usually eating breakfast until the birds are singing songs of cheap and easy availability.
 
Sometimes, however, you just gotta be and do in a dark kitchen, rain be damned.

It’s too soon for bright lights. I’ve learned a shadowy command over this kitchen before sunup. Going to the secret control panel, I tap the touch-sensitive non-switches for turning the broiler on high.
 
The new oven’s pleasing bleeps compliment my choice even as I'm making it. Taking a quick check behind the heat-proof door, the answer is yes--the rack remains in the middle of the oven.
 
Next, I grab the go-to cast-iron skillet and slide it onto that big BTU hellfire burner at the front of the cooktop. Flipping it on, it rips at a radiant intensity determined to mock the sun even on its best day.
 
Inside the shadow-busting shaft of light from the fridge is a plastic bag imprisoning a slender slice of Lazy Way pan pizza, and a glass jar of cold coffee with a blue-tape label that says in shaky Sharpie marks, “Moka.”
 

These two unlikely leftovers are about to become breakfast champions.
 
While the cast-iron continues heating, I remove the half slice from its plastic bag and let it breathe its last. It is destined for better.
 
The moka jar is full of leftover black coffee from a previous morning’s efforts for café au lait.
 
If you don’t know the marvel of the moka, it’s what a lot of folks refer to as an “espresso pot.” It makes a thick black brew of rocket fuel that can give even a strong man the jeebie jitters.
 
Technically, what it produces is not espresso. That requires hot water under greater pressure to “express” the coffee. But the net result is similar. This nifty little pot that goes by “Bialetti” produces a full day’s allowance of caffeine shakes.
 
A shot of moka and three shots of pristine bottled water in a mug nuked for a minute fifteen results in a tolerable semblance of a caffé Americano.
 
Carrying the steaming mug back to the cast iron on fire, I pop the cold slice plop into the pan.
 
A couple of minutes, and the bottom of the slice is crisping hot as the pan is beginning to smoke ever so slightly in the dark kitchen. (You can see itif you get your face down close enough to the ripping red hot cast iron, a move which might not be endorsed by the local consumer safety patrol.)
 
Slipping a welding glove onto my left hand (yes, I do have the Lincoln Electric black gloves with the red flames you can find in the big-box home improvement stores), I grab the hot handle, then carry and slide the cast-iron skillet into the oven under the broiler, then close the door.
 
I cup my mug and crouch by the window, turning on the light and sipping leftover repurposed rocket coffee while spying my leftover half-slice as it enjoys the transformation from two-day-old cold dinner detritus into a hot bubbly breakfast badass.
 
It takes only about a minute and a half. I often think about Joe Beddia of Philadelphia's fan favorite Pizzeria Beddia. In his cookbook, Pizza Camp, he talks about always turning on the oven light because, as he says, “I like to watch.”
 

I get it. Even an old cold piece o’ pizza evolving into a reinvigorated hero slice is a show to behold.
 
Toppings begin to caramelize.
 
Cheese begins to bubble.
 
The fats down inside the cupped and charred cased-meat slices sizzle away beneath the electric sun.
 
And…
 
It looks done.
 
Take it out, turn off the heat and light, slip the slice onto a plate, and carry it with the coffee to the loveseat where I will commit.
 
The undercrust is hot and crispy with a hint of olive oil. The top of the pizza is charred and charming.
 
The cheese beneath the caramelized layer is creamy and coy with a come-hither quality it never had when it was newborn.
 
The coffee—hot, black and bitter like my heart—is in counterpoint contrast to the hot and ready pizza slice on the plate.
 
Pizza is simple.

So am I.

How about you?

This nonsense brought to you by Free The Pizza. Do not try any of the above actions at home. Management is not responsible for any bad decisions on your part. 

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