I made a big show of dashing back into the house today to grab my forgotten camera off the windowsill. It tends to hide behind our eternal orchid (going on 8 months), which leads me to curse said orchid whilst out seeing blog-photo opportunities which cannot be taken.
Soooo, I made a big show of REMEMBERING the camera today for a special date with my roommate.
And then forgot to use it until we had left the restaurant.
The Philosopher and I took in a leisurely lunch at Fire & Stone, a local pizza joint which has a £5 pizza deal on Thursdays. It’s a bit of a gimmicky place, but in a way that sort of soothed the usual pain of eating pizza while not in America. We were distracted by the weirdness of the toppings.
The Philosopher went for the New York due to his long-standing admiration for the city and its poetic nature, but secretly I know he just likes to have fried potatoes as much as possible in every way possible.
Both pizzas were a success and a failure, in a way. The unusual toppings were a distraction, nay, even a pleasure, for the first few slices. But then, our chewing slowed, we stared at each other with guilt and some degree of disgust, and realized that we were eating duck and fried mini cubes of potatoes on pizza.
Pizza is for fresh mozzarella taken straight from the cheesecloth, basil cut from the vine (vine?), and salty-crispy-foccaciay dough flipped by strong and hairy Italian-American hands in a hot brick room in New Haven.
We tried to rally, but the sad feeling stuck.
Sometimes it’s hard to be away from home good pizza.