Confession time: On my 25th NYE, I fell asleep on my couch at 11:15 pm. I had spent the afternoon and evening with Levi teaching me how to make his signature labor-instensive, no real recipe cracker-thin pizza—all the while scoffing at the “newfangled” equipment I offered him. (Alex spent the day covered in rust, freezing his fingers off under the car.) Muzgaash was on broil for most of the day, the smoke alarm had to come down during pre-heating (hours before the dough completed three rises), and we ended up cracking Lev’s pizza stone, but the finished product was well worth the effort.
We made the classic mozzarella/tomato/basil for me, a bianca with olive oil, mozzarella, and dreamy prosciutto de parma for Levi, and Alex’s favorite pepperoni and black olive combination. I wiped Alex off the Risk board around ten and, vengeance quenched, belly full, was sleepy and satisfied when I lay down on the couch “to rest.”
I wasn’t able to nap through the big event though, “fireworks” (read: gunshots) rang out at midnight on the South Side. Ironically, asleep in my bed an hour into the new year, I missed the BB gun that went off in my own dining room, shattering one of those mercury-filled light-bulbs with the scary “what to do if this breaks” instructions (i.e., put on your hazmat suit and don’t breathe). I may have missed it, however, we certainly started 2012 with a bang at our house.