exercising self control

So last night, I was making our traditional Friday night pizza ala Peter Reinhart, using his Neo-Neopalitan crust. Mmmmmm..... This isn't your throw-the-dough-together-an-hour-before-it-goes-into-the-oven pizza. Usually, I make the dough the night before, or even prepare it as far ahead as four days prior. Yesterday's version had a meager eight-hour fermentation.

I was pulling my pie out of the blazing 550* on convection oven. Flip. Cheese-side-down hanging on the rack. Dripping onto the door. Toppings becoming one with the floor, glass, gap between the door and oven. Grrrrrrrrr. SELF CONTROL, STEPH -- there are children present. "What's wrong, Mommy?" "What happened, Steph?" "I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!!!"

So I scraped up the salvageable bits, plopped them onto the side-right-up crust, cut it into four and devoured it. "Mommy, you're right! It doesn't matter how (horrible and grotesque) it looks! It's GOOD!"