Confession is good for the soul so they they say; and so often we do show ourselves most tellingly and truly in our worst moments. As much as I admire you all, my brilliant colleagues, your estimable culinary expertise, doubtless, much more to be known personably - our fallible but lovable humanity. To initiate this thread, a sterling example of personal, recent dopiness:
I was making pizza for my mother in her rather smallish, galley-style kitchen. Although decidedly not arena for extravagance of gesture, presumptuously overconfident, the hubris-tempting theatricality of tossing the dough was irresistible - poor, pathetic, puerile pizzaiolo I.
That lofty last launch, the pizza, cartoonlike, seemingly defying gravity, remarkably not returning to hand; unnerved, upset, upwardly gazing - if not to the gods to resolve my bewilderment, the magic of modern machinery: drooping dejectedly upon the fin of the recently installed, negligibly noticed ceiling fan, the pizza sorrily swinging slowly in the wind.
