More and more, I think I have chosen the right city to be my eventual capital. Oh, granted, it is hotter than Hel in the summer, and the traffic is abysmal, and as far as gardening conditions go, it’s the armpit of the horticultural world, BUT…
..The pizza situation is improving.
One of the local markets has just opened a pizzeria just inside the front of the store. There it sits, wafting its grease-and-garlic siren song right into the foyer, so that all of those mortals who are “shopping hungry” are immediately drawn by the nose to investigate the source of the ambrosial aroma. Those who have not arrived hungry are rendered so with a few sniffs. It’s all anyone can do to make it past the pizza to the produce.
Two other, stand-alone pizza restaurants have opened in the last year or so. Both specialize in building pies on a thin crust, adding whatever toppings one desires, and baking them in a flash in an oven kept at roughly the temperature of the surface of the sun.
We’re’ trying out one of them today. Since the local town council has made the nearby parking garage free and obviated the need to pay just to walk around this section of town, it seems like a good time.
The menu is pretty straightforward…
Though that gratuitous stray apostrophe is giving me hives. I note that they list gorgonzola as one of the possible toppings. If I live on this planet for a millennium, I will never understand the Midgardian fascination with weaponized cheese.
No two souls will ever agree on what toppings should go on a pizza, so pizza-crafters will often divide the crust of a shared pie down the center and top the halves differently, with a sort of no-man’s-land in the middle. Behold–the humans’ pizza is such a pie:
Chicken, spinach, artichoke, tomato, basil, mozzarella, and a nice tomato sauce.
There is a demilitarized zone separating the pro-mushroom camp (human female) from the anti-mushroom camp (human male.) Norns defend any fungus unwary enough to accidentally stray over the line. Such a shroom will be dealt with using extreme prejudice.
Which is why it will be so much fun when the male discovers the bit of basidiomycete that I’ve hidden under his copious artichokes. He will glare daggers at the female and accuse her of disrespecting the culinary and matrimonial treaties, and she will accuse him of being a baby when it comes to members of Kingdom Fungi.
Then I will direct the female’s attention to the calorie counts listed on the menu and whisper in her ear that each delicious bite is in direct conflict with her desire to fit into her clothes without the application of grease and a shoehorn.
And thus what began as a pleasant, peaceful evening, sharing a pizza at an outdoor table while watching little children play upon the grass, will devolve into defensiveness, resentment, self-loathing, and my ability to snag about a third of their pizza for myself.
My work here is done.