Preface: Every once in an often the slow drag of the blues gripes me. Even while on a beach in paradise, the undertow of melancholy is inescapable.
Today I had a slice of pizza for lunch. I do this about 222 times a year, but toady was different.
This slice of pizza was so god damn delicious it made me want to light myself on fire.
The first bite was all sauce.
The tomatoes must have been vine ripened in the Garden of Eden. This sauce was the perfect blend of everything. Garlic, oregano, basil. And. It was sweet. Not sweet like candy. But, sweet like the first ray of sunshine on a perfect May morning: light, and almost unnoticed.
Then the mozzarella. It wasn’t cheese at all. This milky congealer must have been the silk that Athena herself slumbered upon. A salty heaven.
When all that was gone I was left with the crust. The dough that made this crust could only have been made by my father’s father. I never knew the man, but family has told me that he and I we were cut frome the same stone. He and his brothers were Bakers. I grew up with the smell of freshly baked bread in my nostrils, and up until about 5 years ago that same bakery was around the corner from the house I live in now.