This weekend, I wanted home-made pizza. It has long been one of my favorite meals. So I set out on my weekend alone to create the Greatest Pizza Ever Made (by an Irish-boy from Wisconsin).
I visited my local market, Greenbag in tow, and carefully selected the ingredients for the sauce and toppings: tomatoes, red onions, green peppers, italian sausage, pepperoni, black olives, fresh mushrooms, and a block of mozzerella (freshly grated is always best).
As I checked out from the “Self-checkout” lane, a true sense of exhiliration rushed over me. And for those that know me well, my immense apathy toward all things does not cotton well with exhiliration…this was truly a red letter day.
I trudged home along freshly cut grass, soaking in the smells of Spring. As I arrived home, I unloaded my shopping bag and began the tedious preparations. I will not bore you with the details here, but be aware…I might have been whistling.
After constructing an absolutely gorgeous pizza pie, fit for the even the most bourgeouise capitalist, I relished the aroma as the timer clicked on toward pizza perfection.
Removing it from the oven, I sliced 6 perfectly gooey slices, cheese dripping, vegetables hot and tender. I slowly raised the first slice to my mouth and burned all of the interior-mouth-flesh that I was granted upon my entrance to this mortal coil.
As all the tastebuds fell away and my awesomely developed calf muscles tensed in frustration, I moved the pizza to the cooling box so that I might enjoy it after my mouth heals.
It was then that I remembered why I get so excited when I order a pizza from a local delivery establishment…cooling off time.
Absurdly yours,
Holmes
I utterly and totally can relate. My mouth’s also oh-so-scarred from previous cookin’ experiments… can’t taste any food ever again, just eat whatever looks n’ smells nice…