Byran Martin's murzillo stuffed with antipasti

There is something about the humble shed that inspires us to create, to explore, to be better people. Scratch that, what am I saying? I mean men; to be a better man, seeing as the shed is universally acknowledged as the last frontier of manhood. I wonder how many inventions have come from old tin sheds in backyards. A shed is where you can store the tools of your imaginary trade, that thing that inspires you to lock yourself away from prying eyes and get lost in the moment. And after a year of spending every spare moment secreted away, you reveal, to your stunned family, a rotunda made out of matchsticks, dental floss and blu-tack.

Shows such as Mythbusters surely came about from these two characters, Adam Savage and Jamie Hyneman, messing around in a shed with all their crazy ideas. Likewise, Wilbur and Orville Wright would have spent serious time in shed out the back of their bicycle repair shop, fiddling with the idea of super-slow flight.

In the wine industry we basically work in sheds but in France, the garagistes movement in the region of Bordeaux has almost redefined wine making. You don't need expensive, state-of-the-art wineries filled with stainless steel, just a shed with a bath and a barrel and you are on your way. So we are in agreement - sheds rock. And what I'm getting heaps of at the moment is a lot of what I call garagistes salume. I know I'm mixing up language and ideas but seemingly each morning I am being given a bag full of salami, prosciutto or some other rough, hand-made-yet-unknown form of dried meat. So I'm thinking things are hotting up in the sheds and the ham be coming.

Every year, in early April, many a salumier descends into his or her shed with a freshly killed pig - or parts thereof - and a bag of salt to start the curing process. Six months later, as the weather turns, all these weird, misshapen forms of meat come out of the shed before the heat spoils them.

The first gift this year was a log of partially dehydrated dark meat covered in desiccated chilli paste. This is coppa and it is possibly the easiest salume to make at home. You don't need a mincer or anything in particular to make it, just a shed to hang it in during winter. It's from the neck of the pig and is cured in one piece, generally with chilli to help protect it from insect attack and to give that nice bit of heat.

Jeff Fook, who I work with, has made this one himself. Jeff isn't remotely Italian but he hangs out with plenty of them. He is the guy that does the hard stuff like the killing and the butchering of the pig. I arrive at work most days wondering what Jeff will have in his well-stocked yet slightly gruesome lunch box. Today he pulls out this knob of meat, grabs his huge pocket knife and slices me off a sliver to try.

It's good, on the dry side as he likes it but there's plenty of soft, buttery meat with that chilli kick that cleans the toothpaste off the teeth. I have to say I do like this cut; coppa or capicola, capocollo etc. There's many ways to say it but given the rough, old-country feel to Jeff's version, I like to revert to the way they pronounced it in The Sopranos, "Hey, gabagool, oiver here."

Gabagool is what we tend to call coppa. It's either Italian-American slang or possibly from Naples and southern Italy. It doesn't matter, either way, it sounds good and you get to practise your best Paulie Walnuts/Fat Tony impression: "Ayyy, you brung de gabagool, meeno ma-le!"

This cut does make a great sandwich, sliced wafer-thin and served with arugula (rocket), roasted peppers (capsicum) and bocconcini (ahh, cheese). It's a left-over antipasto plate stuffed into bread. If you want to be real authentic, squish in roasted garlic. There's nothing like a famiglia DiMeo, mafioso-inspired lunch with that guttural sweetness of garlic on everyone's breath.

A great way of serving coppa, and all these condiments, is in a freshly baked murzillo. These are made from pizza dough and resemble pita bread. Rolled out and baked they puff up so you can cut

But hey, you know, you can do what you like here. Use panini, ciabatta or anything. As Tony Soprano would say, "A wrong decision is better than indecision."

Murzilli

450g strong baker's flour

250ml water

2g dried yeast

2 tsp salt

Put all the ingredients in a mixer bowl with a dough hook attached and process or knead for 20 minutes.

If it's looking a little dry, add a tablespoon or two of cold water and keep kneading.

Turn the dough out and knead by hand until it is smooth and elastic. Divide and form tight 50g balls.

Place them on a greased tray, cover and let them slowly double in size. This should take about 5-6 hours.

Once ready, using just your hands, push them out to rough discs about 8cm in diameter.

Put them on a baking tray and bake for 8-10 minutes in a very hot oven until they are puffed up and crusty.

Cool for a bit, cut in half and fill with any, or all, of the following.

You can just make up a large antipasto

Murzillo fillings

coppa, shaved

mortadella, sliced

prosciutto, shaved

red capsicum, roasted and peeled

eggplant, roasted over a flame and pureed

bocconcini, torn apart

pecorino or parmesan, grated very finely

basil leaves, torn

rocket, rinsed and dried

roasted garlic, pureed

tomato, sliced