It’s 12:28 AM. Here I am, making pizza. My husband and I decided that we were hungry, not yet tired enough for bed. A terrible blow to our intended schedule. We were supposed to be tucked in and ready to drift at exactly 11 PM, after an hour of quiet study time. This, however, never happened. Not this night.
I pressed the soft and sticky dough onto a well oiled cookie sheet, my hands just as coated in oil as the dough. He prepared the toppings. I sauced and cheesed the pizza before he doused it with spices and I layered on the chopped black olives.
In the dim glow of the yellow kitchen light, we calmed again with a peaceful display of friendly affection. Oh how much love is poured into a pizza, wrapped in the sauce and cheese.
The pizza wouldn’t take long to bake, then we’d start our other-worldly adventures. Doctor Who. What else?
I reheat the pizza again this afternoon. The dreary day, streets drenched with rain, leaves torn violently from the trees that helped them grow. And still, I feel a quiet comfort.
There’s a peace, quiet and warm, although the day is cold. It fills me up and I long for a soft and cozy bed, layered with blankets and pillows that surround me.