A Bad Stretch

When I was growing-up carry-out pizza from a real pizza parlor was a treat.  A very rare treat.  As a matter of fact I have an acquaintance that once told me he never had pizza until he was in high school or college or some such thing.

Since we got our brick oven, pizza around here has been raised to an art-form.  For the spring semester I'm teaching another round of pizza-making classes.

Admittedly, I have become a pizza snob. 

In the 1960s there was a time that this culinary hideousness found its way under our roof.

Just like those ancient times before kettle grills there was burnt and ash-covered chicken.  Frequently raw in the center.  For pizza it was a particularly bad stretch.