pizza for 16

I brought 16 balls of pizza dough, a big jar of my homemade New York-style sauce, and a jar of my spicy caramelized onion and hot cherry pepper mix to a friend’s house Sunday afternoon.

Pizza for 16 was quite a project. I slid pizza on and off of the hot stone for about two and a half hours, red-faced, hair piled high on my head and sweat trickling behind my apron. Lovely image, I know. I sipped on a glass of old vine Zin and chatted with lady friends while working. Children popped in and out of the sweltering kitchen to place their pizza orders and check on status. My pizza was last to come out of the oven. It was delish, if I may say so myself.

wye river

I stand on the deck of the boat, brow furrowed against whipping hair, wind lashing my back.

I watch my heart trampoline hard on the wake, tethered to me with the thinnest rope.

He swings wide, an inked stylus recording a round swell of current, then jerks left and right, scratching thick and black the sharp spikes of my fear. A final jolt, and he slips under the dark water.

Later, we thump hard and fast back to the marina.
His brown skin glows a life vest orange,
his blue eyes closed against fat rain drops.
He scratches his jellyfish stings.