Pizza

It may seem trivial so some; while to others it is a matter of utmost importance.  We bachelors have been surviving on pizza since…  Uh…  However long we’ve had pizza.

Anyway, when I got home from church Sunday, I decided I wanted a pizza.  So I went to the freezer, moved the frozen waffles and empty ice cube trays aside (I should really fill those sometime), and retrieved a pizza.  Red Baron is the brand I like, primarily because they’re 3 for $10 at Woodman’s Market.

In my bachelor pad, there are no pizza pans.  This is because my brother/roommate’s pizza pans had become too rusted to use safely (there was very little actual metal on them).  It really isn’t that big of an issue, as it’s entirely workable to place the pizza directly on the oven rack, and it yeilds a more crispy crust.  However, removal becomes an issue in these cases.  Fortunately I have a rather large knife which can serve for this purpose with a minor feat of balancing.

So I preheated the oven to 400°, inserted the pizza, and set the timer for 20 minutes.  Then I waited…  I deleted some old emails, checked a new message on facebook which turned out to be something stupid anyway, played a few quick games of solitaire…

The timer beeped, and I went for the kitchen, grabbed my big knife while opening the oven, slid the blade carefully under the pizza, and began extraction.  I have done this over a dozen times since I moved in to my apartment (at which time we discovered the rusted pans), and was taking extreme care.  To the bachelor, this operation must be handled more delicately than brain surgery, as the cost of a mistake is equally deadly.

Carefully I moved it, inch by grueling inch, toward the waiting box lying open on the counter nearby.  The edges seemed to sag more than they should have.  Then came the most difficult part: the horizontal movement.  As I got closer, the tension built; one small mistake could spell disaster.

And then, disaster.  The pizza began to slide.

My first instinct was to move faster toward the countertop, but I knew this would only accelerate the sliding.  So I continued movement at the same rate, while gravitation began to pull move heavily upon the edge that was sliding.

Just inches away from my objective, the 400° pizza slipped from my large knife.  It flipped once in the air as it fell.  I reached for it with my free hand, ignoring the small part of my brain screaming, “IT’S HOT!!!!”

This was no time for pansies.

As it began a second vertical rotation, I managed to grab some of the toppings from the centre, but the rest of it continued its horrible plummet.  I watched helplessly as the most wonderful of all bachelor foodstuffs landed unceremoniously on the floor, upside down.

…………………………………………………………………………………

For a moment I stood, flabbergasted at what had just transpired, until the second degree burns on my hand brought back my senses.  I dropped the few toppings I’d saved from certain doom onto the plate waiting patiently next to the box for the pizza slices it would never receive, and ran cold water over my hand.  As the burns cooled, I looked sadly at the pitiful remains of my $3.34 pizza, lying there on the cold, unfeeling kitchenette floor.  Dead.

Why?

…  WHY…?

As I cleaned up my tragic loss, my brother’s phone rang, and it was our dad asking if we were coming over for dinner like our mom had expected.  So it wasn’t as terrible any more, since I was able instead to eat a real home-cooked meal.  But I shall always carry the scars of that fateful event: the sauce stain on my shirt sleeve from when I made my grab, and the sticky spot on the floor that I should probably mop.