Confessions of a pizza killer.

Oh, you didn't kill no pizza. They just have to invent things to bitch about.

I should have taken a photograph of what I ended up taking out of the oven. Blacker then Kentucky coal they were!

Sounds dead, alright.

I'll grant you an indulgence after the fact - because I've dough waiting to be rolled out, spread with some not yet made tomato sauce, a cheese I'm trying for the first time (I already tasted it, good) called Asadero, already marinated mushrooms, already sauteed spicy diced eggplant, a couple of garlic stuffed green olives sliced. Mild italian sausage or not? Best to save that for another day (maybe a to-be-concocked soup). Oh, and probably some previously caramelized onions.. (or not). We'll see, the day is young yet and I don't want to junk it up with too many different tastes.

I've never killed a pizza, though almost did; I did completely immolate a baked potato once. That one was also totally blackened and quite shiny. I even took a polaroid of it, but have thrown the picture away long ago.

It is now in that dough in the sky somewhere that all burnt pizza goes to. I sent some garlic bread there a few days back. Right when it neared perfection in the oven, the dog distracted me by barking. I went outside to see who might be prowling in the dark. When I returned, the garlic bread resembled your pizza slices. The dough-manity.

Now I understand. . . that's what the dark clouds are made of.