On a Wednesday night after leaving work, I found myself craving a slice of pizza. I stop in the pizza place by the train station, off the R train in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. I order a margherita style. Once I get my slice, I pay and thank the gentleman, " gracias."
I sprinkle my slice with dried red pepper, dried oregano leaves and a touch of garlic powder, just the way I like it (not store- branded parmesan cheese because the one used on my pizza is fresh!)
As I sit to eat my slice a sudden emotion overcomes me, what a delightful slice of pizza! The marinara sauce is so thick and tasty I can feel the basil, the garlic, the olive oil working their way through my tasting buds. The fresh parmesano cheese delicately adding to the euphoria erupting in my mouth. The crust, oh the crust, I never thought I would taste such a perfect crust. Not too soft, not too hard but perfect enough to hear the crispy and healthy sound of your teeth biting into them. I'm not usually one to eat a crust, but I couldn't leave such beauty behind. The most important part of my story are my hands. Why? Because I have a big connection to food through them. My motto is: If I can eat it with my hands, I will. Forks, knives and spoons are disruptive objects. They're like the middle person. They stop you from completely connecting with the food you're about to bring into your body. The act of eating should be made a ceremony, a delicious and sacred break you take from the mundane tasks of the world you live in.
