The last grisly remains of the pizza dough were favouring me with an accusatory glare from the bottom shelf of the fridge this morning.
The dough yielded one useful lump, which was duly rolled out and adorned with ham, except for the centre, which I left bare. After five minutes in the oven, I broke an egg into the recess in the middle and covered the lot with a handful of grana. A few more minutes and behold, the breakfast of champions.
The egg, of course, didn’t confine itself to the well in the middle, and some of it escaped over the baking sheet, and has become carbonised laminate. Oh well, fun with the washing up.
The remaining odds and sods of dough were rolled into a single flattish piece (about two centimetres thick) brushed with olive oil, more salt, and popped in for a 20 minutes. A very rough, but quite palatable, ciabatta/focaccia/thing resulted.