It's 6:04. The kitchen has been cleaned to a maniacal standard. The laundry is done. The floors have been swept and vacuumed. The bathroom cleaning has been intentionally scheduled for Sunday (I like to start my week with a really clean shower). Miles Davis is playing. And here I sit, sipping Vodka-Elderflower-Tonic while my husband makes pizza. I love his pizza. He does a convincing Chicago-Style, which generally causes me to swoon. He also makes a really good Friday night thin-crust. His concentration is impressive. He makes his own dough. He bought a pizza peel about a year ago, and has been experimenting with hot-surface-cool-dough to get a nice, crisp underside of the crust. The process takes over an hour, but it's worth the wait.
You know, it could taste like a hockey puck, and I'd still enjoy the show. Right now, he's guiding Hannah in seasoning the sauce and arranging the toppings.
Dave: Put it on the pizza, not in your mouth.
Hannah: eating shredded mozzarella
Dave: Did you hear me?
Hannah: Oh. Yeah. OK. Where's the pepperoni?
I love cooking, and I enjoy the preparation of a meal as much as the eating. Probably because I eat so much along the way. Dave really only feels this way about pizza. It's a mission. It's a meditation. It's serious business.
It's Friday night. Life is good.