Matty came rushing in the moment I opened the garage door this morning but I'll spare you another photo of him napping on the couch.
Instead I'll tempt your taste buds with a photo I found on my phone yesterday that I'd forgotten about
As you may recall, I prepare pizza most Friday evenings but not the way true pizza cooks do it.
Mine starts with a frozen pizza from the grocery store and is then "doctored" with more pepperoni, a mixture of diced mini-peppers, some mozzarella, sometimes some cherry tomatoes or red onion, and some basil and Parmesan cheese tossed on at the pre-slicing moment.
As I was beginning this post I was thrown back to the 1950's when pizza finally had made it's way to the cultural backwash where I grew up.
We college-age kids used to have what were called "pizza parties" where the pies would be created, baked and devoured while we listened to Duke Ellington and Dave Brubeck records.
We felt soooooo sophisticated!
I realize now that that was typical of many college sophomores of the era, full of "great wisdom" imparted by our reading Jack Kerouac, J.D. Salinger and dipping into some Kafka.
I remember reading "Metamorphosis" aloud to a friend as he drove us somewhere on a North Dakota highway.
That was long ago now in an increasingly fuzzier memory.
But I still love my Friday Night Pizza.
