In which I give up the reins.

Or, In which I get beer on my bum.

Saturday night's menu was for a pizza. Because my boyfriend has interesting ideas about flavors (that are usually correct - he should have been a molecular gastronomist, I swear), we had a pizza that had green olives, red peppers, pepperoni and mozzarella (and of course, tomato sauce). Most of the way through the baking, spinach and more parmesan were added.

It was, I have to say, delicious. The sweet roasted peppers meshed so well with the salty olives, and the pepperoni and mozzarella were so perfect, and the spinach just added something so nice.

Plus, the crust was lovely. The boyfriend made it, because I was at work, and we wanted to eat before midnight. I'd heard somewhere that a pizza place used Bud in the pizza crust, to make things happier. I advised that the boyfriend did that, but didn't specify that he should also use water. THis almost lead to a crisis while I was at work, but I specified once I got him on the phone, after I left work, and things were rectified.

He has such little confidence in his abilities, which is sad because he did a fine job on the crust. Plus, he got to use the magic that is my KitchenAid Mixer, and I love letting people share the joy of it. Anyways. THe dough did its thing, and it was wonderful. He did a great job. I need to learn how to make a thinner pizza crust itself, because it's darn difficult cutting the ones I keep turning out.

And then, of course, while sitting on the couch enjoying a Blue Moon Belgian White with my slice of pizza, I put the beer on the futon next to me, and of course it tipped over, spilling beer all over my ass. I was unhappy, to say the least.

Bonus points for the pizza being even nommier the next day. Cold pizza for breakfast = FOR THE WIN!!!!

Next time: In which chili doesn't mean that it's chilly.

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