What this post is not: A recipe of some kind. A review of some hipster tea shop.
What it is is a post about pizza. Perfect pizza. The perfect slice. The slice that, if someone else were to eat it, would break your heart.
Don’t know what I am talking about? Has your life been a barren perfectpizzaless desert? Perhaps it doesn’t happen to everyone. Not everyone is that lucky. Perhaps it is just an incredibly subjective thing. One man’s perfect pizza, a Hawaiian perhaps *heaves*, is another man’s hell on a plate.
We had the perfect slice in our house yesterday. And we didn’t even know it. Bibsey did though. She knew. But the tragedy was that DADDY ATE IT! Had I known, I might have bobbed a curtsey. But I WOULDN’T HAVE EATEN IT!
I don’t think that he knew either. Perhaps if he had he wouldn’t have eaten it. We’ll never know now. But we will never EVER forget the day that…
“DADDY ATE THE PERFECT SLICE!”
Her words. Her exact words. Wailed over and over again from her ‘sad place’ under the stairs. THE perfect slice. I needed a mop and bucket to deal with the ensuing inundation of tears. Upside: the floor got an unscheduled once-over *joking as if a once-over was a scheduled thing, even an ever-thing here at Bibsey Towers*
This was by no means the first pizza-related tantrum in our house but it was certainly the most dramatic. Move over all you Divas of Oscars-past. There is a new girl on the block and she is going to wipe the set floor with you.
Do you know what though? I get it . I totally get it. You get home from a hard day at school and you are hungry and tired. Truth be told you just want slob out on the sofa watching Charlie Brown and Snoopy reruns and have your mum bring you snacks on the minute, every minute. When someone snaffles the perfect slice it’s going to hurt, right?
It’s a bit like making the coffee in the morning only to slip and throw the whole pot everywhere, on every surface. Not only do you have to make a new pot, but you have to clean up as well. Insult. Injury. Much like being hit in the face with a hockey stick when you weren’t ready for it. What? It happens.
When she finally calmed down I told her to save the story and tell it to her aunt, my sister. She will understand because this is a woman who has been known to cry great big grown-up tears over a badly turned out pizza (Pizza Express, Bromley Christmas 2009).
I have also seen a grown man cry over a pie crust, or lack of to be precise, but that is another story…
All is well now. Bibsey has a story to tell and we have been visited by greatness in the form of the Perfect Slice. Which was nice.
So tell me, what will send you over the top and into an irrational tear-streaked collapse? A corked bottle of wine? Burnt toast? Pee on the loo seat? Queue jumpers when there is only one piece of carrot cake left on the counter? Tell me and then I can tell Bibsey and then she will know that she is not alone and that freaking out is just what we do every once in a while.
