Thursday, April 19, 2012

Pizza-opoli




I know what you are asking yourselves. You are asking yourselves why when I suggested to F that it would be so much easier to eat pizza at our house instead of having to find a table for twenty people at a pizzeria, he said, 'sure honey, no problem.' One theory is that he just is in the habit of saying 'sure, honey, no problem' and so he didn't really hear the question.  Another theory is that he underestimated the magnitude of hunger of twenty women who workout regularly, as well as the size of our oven. In pizzeria terminology our oven is the size of a tiny Betty Crocker Easy-Bake model and our pizza tins are the kind you find in a miniature doll house. But I was too afraid of waiting around, and finding parking and dividing the check  and getting home late so my adorable husband made 34 f'ing pizzas last night . . . with diverse toppings.



This is how it worked. He took the little balls of dough and made them into pies. Then he pre-baked a crust and I decorated it. He put it in the oven. I tapped on his ribs and looked at him pleadingly. He poured me more wine. He took the tiny pizza out and cut it into even tinier pieces. I served them on to people's plates with a spatula while keeping track of the seating order. There was one group in the dining room and another group of increasingly hungry and tipsy women in the living room. We made the rounds like that for three hours until everyone was full. This was the one time when there was enough food, but it just took a real long time to get the edge off everyone's hunger. There was more estrogen than you could ever believe and that is not counting the fact that one of my coworkers is about six months pregnant. We toasted to the baby and she always had someone at her side rubbing her belly until she drank enough alcohol that the baby "went to sleep." Good times. Two excursions were made for those people who had to go outside to smoke. They brought not one but two chocolate custard cakes and a tray of pastries and some creamy alcohol that is made from apples but is about as strong as a shot of straight vodka.

 There was a lot of chatting and laughing, and F got a round of robust applause at the end of the night. If you see pictures on Facebook of me looking like a drunk pizza waitress in a see-through orange silk blouse -- now you know why.

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