I made pizza for dinner. I do that about twice a month, as scratch pizza is an undertaking, you see, and not one to be done lightly. Tonight I had help from this fellow here:
who looks much less ghostly in real light.
He came in as I was plopping the crust on the pan, and said “Mama is making bread. Hmmhn.”
I said, “It’s pizza.”
He said “PIZZA!” and was so overcome with excitement that he had to skip off and touch the laundry room wall, then come back.
I said, “Do you want to help me?”
He said, “Hmmhn! Help me.”
I said, “You need oil on your hands. Here is oil.” and spread the olive oil on his hands so he could help press the dough. He did so, pressing perhaps a bit too firmly, but trying so hard to do it just right. I let him do a little, then directed him to the sink while I finished. He washed his hands and dried them, with prompting, and I applied the sauce. He was watching, and deeply wanted to write in the sauce, but restrained himself. Then we did the cheese, which he did perfectly.
My favorite was the application of the pepperonis. He skittered off mid-cheese and I thought he was overwhelmed and done with the whole thing. I finished the cheese and was putting the pepperonis on when a little hand snaked in beside me and placed a slice next to mine. He had gotten a stack of them and proceeded to put them on, precisely, until there was no room for more.
We finished then, and I got on my knees to hug him. I said, “You made the pizza, Bede! You are a wonderful pizza maker!” and he smiled.
I took his picture and then we settled down to watch it bake. Now we’re going to eat it, and it will be the best pizza ever.
And that, my friends, *that’s amore*.