Pizza Again?

Surely.

Here it is. I am making dough. I think they refer to it as a "ass-load" of dough on the streets. The dough is cornmeal and semolina riddled. I found that this makes for a delightfully crispy crust. It is not a wheaty sort of dough, but you can't be good and fiberful all the time. I am also making sauces. A red, some form of a white, and probably a garlicky nutritional yeast and oil number as well. Whoever is coming over will be bringing toppings for a pizza of their choice. We are thinking that maybe between eight and fifteen people will find their way here. a lot of pizza for a lot of people.

I will post the (possible) pictures and results later on.

Until then, in the tradition of Garrison Keillor and the Writer's Almanac, here's a poem by Jorge Luis Borges:

Camden, 1892

The smell of coffee and the newspapers.

Sunday and its lassitudes. The morning,

and on the adjoining page, that vanity---

the publication of allegorical verses

by a fortunate fellow poet. The old man

lies on a white bed in his sober room, 

a poor man's habitation. Languidly

he gazes at his face in the worn mirror.

He thinks, beyond astonishment now: that man

is me, and absentmindedly his hand

touches the unkempt beard and the worn-out mouth.

The end is close. He mutters to himself:

I am almost dead, but still my poems retain

life and its wonders. I was once Walt Whitman.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.


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I didn't have a camera proper, so I just used the little built-in camera on the laptop. We made eleven pizzas, one of which was sent across the street to the wonderful proprietor of our favorite coffee shop, Wings. I made an alfredo sauce, a red sauce and a peanut sauce. All three were stars in their own right. Here is a couple:

And here are the pizza-eaters:

It was all very enjoyable. The aftermath though, not so fun.