The other day, my sister wanted ice at her
party. Certainly. She wanted it on time. Right.
We were late. “We’re en route.” The ice we carried was imperative to cool off
the bevs for the hot picnic day. She
called once. She called twice. The third time we were almost there. My stepdad was become increasingly agitated
about all this. I told him to blame it
all on me. She would anyway. I’ll take the ice hit. We arrived, as suspected, long before any
other guests touched down. I helped
myself to a cold beer out of the refrigerator.
Today I told myself I
didn’t care. But as I washed the dishes
and considered the time, I began to rehearse my lines. As of three minutes ago she was officially
late! I could legitimately begin to
revel in vexation. I tried to do the
dishes. We still didn’t have enough
glasses to drink from. And with each
minute that passed the tension increased. The valuation of my revenge currency
kept rising with every moment. Think of
the drama. “I’ve been paralyzed until
your arrival.” Their car arrived, proceeding
down the driveway a few minutes later.
I made pizza. I can easily secure pizza dough in the
US. I like to make pizza. I enjoy making calzones. But the crust always gets stretched out thin
and thinner. And then you pile toppings
on the pizza and the crust below is too thin to hold it. It’s never strong enough to support the
slices heaped with toppings or the round dough bomb you’ve filled beyond
reason.
Once when I was seventeen
I visited a friend’s house in Amherst Mass.
His mom was from Tuscany. She had
a thick, bubbly, irresistible accent. I
was so dazzled by the calzones she made: big, chewy, and stuffed with ricotta
and sausage. The outside browned, just
right. The bottom never collapsed when
you picked them up, the way mine do. Up
until then I’d only ever had calzones in from a pizzeria. I think I’ve been trying to make her calzones
ever since.
How lovely to host my
family for a change. Everyone has a cold
drink.
Sunday, 07/23/17
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