Saturday, March 21, 2015

a piece on pizza



Saturday night pizza is almost a religious experience around here. It's almost like going to Mass on saturday night, an obligation, almost a requirement to get into heaven. We've found that Papa Murphy's large Special Italian Pizza more than fits the religious obligation we try to observe. It goes without saying that the pizza is treated with the utmost respect, being akin to manna from heaven. The oven is always properly preheated with the oven rack in the optimum position to insure a perfect pizza for the congregation. 
So when something somehow goes wrong during the whole process, it's a near sacrilege, a shove down the slide into Dante's Inferno, where pizza is always over or under baked, eaten with a fork with no beer to wash it down.  Abuse a Saturday Night Pizza and you will be summarily condemned to eat only nutritious health food from from the natural food store for the remainder of your days.
Well you can say bye to Yours Truly. I am surely on the rim of the inferno, teetering on the edge of condemnation. I committed the most grievous of sins against the holy pie. I DROPPED THE PIZZA! First it slid off the rack when I tilted the rack to free it from the oven, sliding right into the back of the oven and onto the heating coils, threatening to set the whole pizza on fire. So, after flinging the rack on the kitchen floor (a wood floor naturally, which now sports a lovely pattern of burned lines that will torment me with the visual reminder of my sinning), I grabbed the nearest thing on hand to rescue the sacred pie from such a horrible fate. The towel I grabbed somehow got tangled up with the pizza and heat coils, causing a screaming deluge of very naughty words, as both flickered into pretty red and orange flames. But despite suffering a burn on my little finger, I managed to grab a substantial amount of boiling hot pizza and with a shout of hallelujahs, dragged it from its certain fate as a burned up lump of tomato sauce and various vegetables, and most grievous of all, charred bits of pepperoni. 
Unfortunately, in completing the rescue operation, I tossed the pizza onto the floor. Upside down.

I immediately invoked the 5 second rule, multiplied by 20, so we could still eat it if we were so inclined. Understand now, Mary's floors are always ready to serve as a table, being so clean they are nearly sterilized regularly as part of her routine cleaning. I had no problem scraping the detritus of ruined pizza off the floor and into my mouth once I stopped yelling blasphemous curses at it, at Mary, at myself, and at the kitchen gods who allowed such a travesty to happen. In my defense, the oven was really hot, I am particularly clumsy, and don't forget that burned little finger I mentioned. I could play the PD card here, but that seems too much like whining for sympathy. It's just that pizza toppings separated from the crust they adorned so deliciously only 20 minutes ago, could no longer be classified as pizza, but could only be referred to as a casserole.

Saturday is not the holy experience it should be when all you have to celebrate and worship with is a casserole. Granted, it was a pizza casserole, but we all know it's just not the same. As I scraped the scattered remains off the floor, off the sides of the cabinet, and off the bottom of my shoe into a pathetic pile, I begged absolution for my mortal sin committed against that divine cuisine. Everyday, until I can look at the floor where the marks of the battlefield are burned into a reminder of this infamous evening, I will taste burned pizza and see that forlorn lump of once proud blended ingrediants that had the holy honor of gracing our Saturday night.

RIP Papa Murphy's Special Italian Pizza.

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