Those who know me in the slightest know that I really really really really really like the Dodgers. If "fan" is short for "fanatic," it's because of people like me. I support the team through thick and thin, and take personal offense when others besmirch the Dodgers' good name (I'm looking at you, Giants fans!!!). The team and I are joined at the hip in an awkwardly symbiotic relationship. And it's for this reason that I try really hard to consume all 162 (that's right--one hundred and sixty-friggin'-two) games in the season. Most of the time that means watching at home with only Vin Scully to keep me company. In the off chance that I can't be in front of a television, I listen to the game on the radio or track the play-by-play on my phone. Some would call this level of devotion unhealthy. And normally I would agree but for the fact that without my attention to each and every game, the team's performance would suffer. Clayton Kershaw wouldn't have won the Cy Young award, and Matt Kemp wouldn't have come oh-so-tantalizingly close to winning the MVP award. And so, I considered it my duty to watch.
A strange thing happened yesterday, though. The Dodgers beat the San Diego Padres by a score of 4 to 3, and I know this not because I watched the game, but because I checked the score the following day. Truth is, I didn't watch or listen to one moment of the game. Nor did I have any urge to check the score while the game was in progress. I didn't forget there was a game, and nothing happened to make me forsake the Boys in Blue. No, it's just that I had a more pressing engagement.
Last night
The Girl and I met up to try our hand at homemade pizzas using store-bought dough and toppings with our own handmade sauces. Hers was a delightful combination of pesto, prosciutto, tomatoes, and fresh mozzarella that she conjured up out of her imagination (left); mine a bit more on the traditional side-- a "classic" margherita. Going into the evening, I had a gut feeling that things would go smoothly, despite both of us lacking any pizza-making experience. But upon consulting friends and the Internets, trepidation started to creep into my mind--"What's a pizza stone and do I need one? What the heck is 'parchment paper,' and why does everyone say I will need one? Will the oven get hot enough, and what if it doesn't?" By the time we were fully entrenched in dough-kneading and sauce-making, trepidation had grown into anxiety--"the dough is oddly misshapen. . . the sauce doesn't look the right color . . . um, how are we gonna get the pies into the oven?" Yikes!
But of course, as with many things in life, your gut feeling deserves your trust when it comes to new adventures, be they culinary or romantic. That became clear upon taking out the first pizza, the margherita (right). Not only did it look and smell fabulous (my crap picture doesn't do it justice), but in the process of baking it morphed into a shape that is suspiciously heart-like in character. After that it was smooth sailing as unnecessary anxiety quickly melted away, and we enjoyed a lovely dinner of pizza, kale salad, and wine followed by some delightful conversation. It was an evening filled with learning and discovery. I learned that a hot surface in the oven for the pizza to rest is the key to a delicious crust and that a pizza peel is pretty key if you're thinking of scaling Mount Pizza. And, I discovered that although I really really really really really like the Dodgers, there is something that I like even more.
--KM
"
C'est si bon. Lovers say that in France when they thrill to romance. It means that it's so good."
No comments:
Post a Comment