Strom-pizza
It was bound to happen sooner or later. Our beautiful disaster.
I give you the strom-pizza:
It started this morning with a cheery, “Let’s make pizza for lunch!”
John looked dubious, but I was already measuring the flour.
I had a funny feeling that I interpreted as, “I used the wrong yeast.” But my main concern was that we’d be slicing our delicious pizza a little later than I expected.
The dough rose, and I flopped it out onto the counter. John was now 100% committed and had gone downstairs to find his pizza slider. “Why is it so sticky?” he asked.
“It’s fine!” I said, shaping the dough into a rough circle on the pizza slider.
Satisfied with my crust, I stepped back and implored John to make it pretty:
Then it happened.
Me: “You don’t think that’s going to slide off of there and into the oven, do you?
Him: “I hope so. We can’t cook it on this.”
Oh. no.
It wasn’t sliding anywhere. John wrestled with it valiantly, going to unreasonable lengths to keep our pizza pizza-shaped. In the end he had to fold it and cut it in half just to get it in the oven.
Order up!
We took our strom-pizza to the couch so we could eat while watching football.
“I don’t like this restaurant,” I said. “We shouldn’t come back.”
John smiled. “Aw, let’s give it a second chance.”