Last Christmas, Laura and I were given a pizza stone. For those unknowing, a pizza stone is a slab of super compressed sand that you put in your oven and bake pizza on. They're fantastic. Since we got ours, I've been making pizza a couple of times a week, minimum. Fantastically delicious pizza a couple of times a week, that is. I love the thing. I'm always going on about the thing. I'm a pizza-making fiend.We're going camping this weekend, so I made pizza for dinner tonight, knowing I wouldn't have it again for a few days. It was a simple yet tasty affair with roasted red peppers, sun-dried tomatoes, olives, garlic and tofu.
Tragedy of all tragedies, sorrow of all sorrows, when I took the pizza out of the oven, this was the sight awaiting me:
The horror. The pain. The ecstasy of a freshly baked pizza mingled with the agony of knowing it could be the last one. I'm going to try to use it with the two chunks just pushed together, but I worry for both my future pizzas and the continuing integrity of the stone. This crack could, I fear, lead to many more, resulting in the eventual demise of my whole little pizza making enterprise. And I'm just not sure if I can deal with that right now.
2 comments:
YUMMY, I want a piece, where can I get one of these stones... sorry to see yours, BUT pizza a few times a week.... hmmmmm..... may be it's telling you something??!!
Hey, you get yourself out here and I'll make you a pizza.
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