When I think of what “perfection” means to me, it’s always the same image;

A circle of dough, cooked just enough for its crust to sing;

A layer of sauce, tart enough to be interesting, but mild enough not to burn;

A layer of cheese that flows between the crust walls as it should–but that few wizards outside of New York City seem to know how to manifest;

Pepperoni made from pork and beef, not “pork plus don’t ask”, scattered lovingly over the cheese blanket;

This is pizza;

It fills the belly and nourishes the soul;

Like love, when pizza is at the top of its game, there are few sweeter pleasures;

When it isn’t, there are few greater disappointments;

But tonight my thoughts are not on philosophy, but the matter at and in hand;



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