Tag: homemade pizza

  • Not Every Square Pizza Is Detroit Style

    Not Every Square Pizza Is Detroit Style

    It seems lately that everywhere I turn, I see the words “Detroit-style pizza.”

    On menus. In passing conversations. In videos where the crust is held up like proof of something—something important, something worth noticing. For a while, I thought I understood it. I thought the difference was simple. That Detroit-style pizza was just pizza that had been squared off. A shape. A presentation. Something visual.

    I was wrong.

    That’s the danger of distance. From far enough away, everything starts to look the same. Dough becomes Dough. Pizza becomes pizza. Regions blur into each other until all that’s left is the outline of something that used to mean more.

    But I’m from the Midwest, and the Midwest doesn’t really believe in sameness, no matter how often it’s flattened into that idea.

    Chicago is not Detroit.

    Casey’s is not Chicago.

    And Detroit is not trying to be either one.

    Each of them carries something specific. Built from the people who made it. The work they did. The pace at which they lived. The kind of hunger they came home with. Food like this isn’t accidental. It doesn’t happen because someone wanted to be different. It happens because the difference was already there.

    And maybe that’s why I kept seeing it.

    Because something in me recognized that I had mistaken shape for substance.

    So here I am, in Albuquerque, New Mexico, standing in a kitchen far from where this pizza began, trying to understand it the only way that ever really works—by making it.

    Not quickly. Not forcefully. But with time.

    Because Detroit-style pizza, the kind people talk about like it matters, doesn’t come together in a rush. The Dough sits overnight. It rests. It changes. It becomes something else while you’re doing something else. And by the time you come back to it, it’s no longer just ingredients. It’s something with structure. With intention.

    And that feels familiar.

    Because many things in life don’t reveal themselves immediately, a lot of things ask you to wait. Ask you to trust that something is happening even when you can’t see it yet.

    This is my attempt at that kind of patience.

    My attempt at making something I once misunderstood.

    Detroit-Style Pizza

    9 x 13 Pan — Overnight Dough

    Why This Pizza Is Different

    Detroit-style pizza isn’t just square.

    It’s built in layers that challenge expectations.

    Cheese goes to the edges.

    Sauce comes last.

    Oil becomes part of the crust, not just something used to keep it from sticking.

    And the Dough—maybe the most important part—takes its time.

    Dough Ingredients (Overnight Fermentation)

    • 2 ½ cups (300g) bread flour
    • 1 teaspoon salt
    • 1 teaspoon sugar
    • ½ teaspoon instant yeast
    • 1 cup (240g) warm water
    • 1 tablespoon olive oil

    For the Pan

    • 2 to 3 tablespoons olive oil

    Cheese and Toppings

    • 12 to 16 ounces low-moisture mozzarella, shredded or cubed
    • Optional: brick cheese, if available
    • Pepperoni, if desired

    Sauce

    • 1 cup crushed tomatoes
    • 1 tablespoon olive oil
    • 1 clove garlic, grated
    • Salt to taste
    • Pinch of sugar (optional)
    • Dried oregano or basil

    Method

    Night Before — Let It Begin

    In a bowl, combine the flour, salt, sugar, yeast, warm water, and olive oil. Stir until a sticky, shaggy dough forms.

    It won’t look finished. That’s fine.

    Let it rest for about 10 to 15 minutes. Then, if you want, do one gentle stretch and fold in the bowl. Just once. Enough to give it some direction without forcing it into something it isn’t ready to be.

    Cover the bowl and refrigerate overnight.

    12 to 18 hours.

    This is where the real work happens. Quietly. Without you.

    Next Day — Bring It Back

    Take the Dough out of the refrigerator about 2 hours before you plan to bake. Let it come to room temperature slowly.

    Oil your 9 x 13 pan with 2 to 3 tablespoons of olive oil. Spread it generously.

    Transfer the Dough into the pan and gently stretch it toward the corners.

    If it resists, don’t force it. Let it rest. Come back in 10 to 15 minutes. Dough responds better to patience than pressure.

    Second Rise — In the Pan

    Let the Dough rise in the pan for 1 to 2 hours.

    It should look soft. Puffy. Alive in a quiet way.

    Make the Sauce

    In a small saucepan, combine the crushed tomatoes, olive oil, garlic, salt, and herbs. Add a pinch of sugar if needed.

    Simmer for 10 to 15 minutes until slightly thickened.

    Set aside.

    Build the Pizza

    Preheat your oven to 500°F, or as high as it will go.

    Add the cheese across the entire surface of the Dough, pushing it to the edges. This matters more than it seems. The cheese that touches the pan becomes something else entirely—dark, crisp, almost laced into the crust itself.

    Add pepperoni if you like.

    Bake

    Place the pizza in the oven and bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until the cheese is bubbling and the edges are deeply golden.

    Remove it briefly and spoon the sauce across the top in stripes.

    Return it to the oven for another 3 to 5 minutes.

    Finish

    Let the pizza rest in the pan for about 5 minutes.

    Then carefully loosen it and lift it out.

    If everything came together the way it should, the bottom will be crisp, the inside soft and airy, and the edges will carry that deep, caramelized texture that makes this style unmistakable.

    Notes From My Kitchen

    Overnight Dough changes things.

    Not dramatically. Not in a way that demands attention. But in a way, you notice once you’ve had it.

    The flavor is deeper. Slightly more complex. The texture feels more settled. More certain of itself.

    That could be the part that stays with me.

    Because we live in a time that pushes for speed. For immediacy. For results that appear as quickly as the desire for them.

    But some things don’t respond well to that kind of urgency.

    Some things need to sit.

    Need to rest.

    Need to become.

    This pizza reminded me of that.

    Reminded me that what looks simple from the outside often carries more intention than we realize. That shape isn’t the story. That time is part of the recipe, whether we acknowledge it or not.

    And that sometimes, if you’re willing to wait—

    What you end up with isn’t just better.

    It’s understood.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

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  • The Last Ingredient House

    The Last Ingredient House

    I was just running in for a couple of things — Mozzarella cheese, maybe some crushed tomatoes. The kind of trip you make when you’ve already decided the night’s ritual: I was going to make pizza. And by making pizza, I mean the whole thing — crust proofed over two days, sauce coaxed slowly from garlic, basil, and crushed tomatoes, Cheese grated by hand until my knuckles risked losing skin.

    At the register, the cashier noticed the haul — the Cheese, the flour, the good olive oil — and smiled.

    “Making pizza?” she asked.

    “Yes,” I said. And just like that, a conversation bloomed.

    She told me she came from what she called an ingredient house. A house where the kitchen was a kind of altar — stocked with the quiet assurance that if company came calling at the last minute, her mother could turn out a beautiful meal without panic. Beans soaking on the stove, onions already sweating in cast iron, a roast pulled from the freezer because it had been waiting for just such a night.

    I nodded, letting the phrase roll around in my mind: ingredient house.

    My own home growing up was… not quite that. We had food, sure — plenty of it — but a lot of it came sealed in boxes with microwave instructions printed in cheerful fonts. Frozen lasagna, instant potatoes, and cans of soup you could doctor up if you felt ambitious. There was love in those meals, but also an efficiency, a shorthand. Meals that required only heat or water, not intuition.

    The Age of Premade Fresh

    Now, we live in a time where you don’t even need to own salt. Walk into any grocery store and you’re surrounded by the new altar — pre-marinated proteins, ready-to-bake pizzas, trays of vegetables already washed, chopped, and glistening under plastic. Fresh, yes. But fresh in a way that requires no relationship, no waiting, no patience.

    And then there’s DoorDash — the pandemic’s golden child. The savior we thanked when we could not leave our homes, when fear of each other turned kitchens into bunkers. Now it lingers, reshaping our sense of effort. You don’t even have to boil the water anymore. You just scroll, tap, and wait for a stranger to leave your dinner at the door like a sacrament.

    What We Lose

    Standing there at the checkout, I realized I wasn’t just buying Cheese. I was buying memory. I was buying slowness. I was buying back the hours required to knead dough, to wait for it to rise, to smell the kitchen change as it bakes.

    I thought about her ingredient house — the kind of place where a pantry wasn’t just storage but possibility. And I wondered what we lose when we give that up. When dinner stops being a verb and becomes an algorithm.

    There is something quietly radical about knowing how to feed yourself from scratch. About putting your hands in dough, trusting yeast to do its slow, invisible work, and showing up for it when it’s ready. Something stubborn and beautiful about refusing the constant seduction of “just heat and serve.”

    What’s Next?

    Sometimes I wonder what comes after this. If premade fresh is today’s answer, what’s tomorrow’s? Meals that make themselves while you scroll? Nutrition is delivered intravenously, so you don’t have to chew. Or maybe a return to ingredient houses — not as nostalgia but as rebellion.

    Maybe that’s why I make pizza this way. Because there’s a small act of resistance in it. In a world of frictionless consumption, I choose friction. I choose to slice garlic thin enough to smell on my fingertips hours later. I choose to shred Cheese until my hands ache. I choose to wait for the dough to rise because I want the reminder that some things — the best things — cannot be rushed.

    And maybe, if I keep doing this, my home becomes the ingredient house I didn’t grow up in. A house where you can pull a meal out of thin air, not because it’s convenient, but because you’ve kept faith with the slow, stubborn art of feeding people well.

    By Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

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    Please click here for my Pizza Crust and Sauce Recipe.

    14-Inch Pizza Crust
    Homemade Pizza Sauce
    Basic Pizza Assembly Guide