Pizza Maker In Heaven

Pizza Maker In Heaven

“There is no sincerer love than the love of food.”
George Bernard Shaw

Daughter takes one bite of my homemade Burrata, creamy filled mozzarella bomb pizza, with roasted, fresh basil flecked, roasted cherry tomatoes on top of a cornmeal dusted bottom and practically faints, before delivering the most kindhearted, emotive compliment in do it all dad’s honor ever. “Daddy, I know you still really want to be a headliner standup comedian. But can’t you be a Pizza Maker in Heaven instead? Uncle Rodney will be your favorite customer. Remember how much he likes pizza in Easy Money? You’re money in the bank daddy, money in the bank.”

Pizza Maker in Comedy Heaven has an even nicer ring to it. I can bust Frank Sinatra’s balls for hanging out with Don Rickles, so some personality can rub off through osmosis. I’d also give him grief for ordering one of his goons to knock on Jackie Mason’s hotel room in Vegas, only to break his nose, for making fun of Frank too much. After Frank’s goon shatters Jackie Mason’s nose. Jackie replies with, I told Frank Don Rickles was hitting him with kiddie gloves compared to me.

I love cooking for my 3 children, wife included, but it’s their palpable joy which I derive the most amount of giving pleasure from because all my dishes are made with love. That’s my new line I deliver around my wife whenever I feel like her dinner performance was halfhearted, non-thought through, ordinary dinner assemblage. Thing is, my wife is a good cook. She can even make Lentil Soup scrumptious and visually appealing. But mama isn’t racking up as many yummy dances around the downstairs floors as I do.

 

My attitude is if you’re a stay at home dad or mom, whether it’s your choice or not, make the most of it, by making the family meal great again. Wash the table cloths with the intention of making the family meal a springboard for special memories attached to your home forever. Telling Alexa, never play Barbara Streisand duets with Frank Sinatra again through the Alex app and requesting Send in the Clowns versus just play Frank Sinatra helps maximize the enjoyment factors from these family, forming meals also.

I’ve injected my 3 children into grown up activities I’ve missed out on since becoming a father such as going to any rock concert I wish. Took my kids to see Kid Rock in Hartford, CT. A faded groupie of old was well meaning when she said to my kids, “That brings me back.” And I’m thinking to when?  Your dad ditching your mom for a friskier looking fox half way into a Lynyrd Skynyrd’s cover band version of Free Bird at a local Hartford bar when the Wailers weren’t in town?

 

Thing is, most rock concerts venues are far removed from being considered “family friendly.” For example, when I took the entire family to see Foreigner, Cheap Trick and Jason Bonham’s band in Bethel Woods, my kids were treated with immediate eye scolding, sacrament destroying disdain as if I was intentionally trying to freak all the old timer speed freaks by sneaking my kids into a concert like Michael Jackson’s kids concealed in burkas from head to toe.

Also, I can’t even go to a random pizzeria these days in NY, without being treated like an off-duty Ice Agent in North Face. So where else can a do it all dad attain an ideal mix of tunes and bonding through doing time with his children than in the kitchen at home? Not convinced yet at the bonding rich potential of cooking with your kids even if you’re not self-proclaimed shishy bitch who used to shop at Trader Joes back in the day in LA, only to get Vermont cheddar for his homemade Tuna Melts with avocado, before Vermont cheddar went mainstream.

My youngest child, lucky number 3, Chef Samuels will point at a red onion at Stop and Shop and say, “Eyes”, before rubbing his eyes from the crying produced from cutting onions in the 1st place. I don’t call my son Chef Samuels for nothing folks. He also already eats primo smoked salmon with no adornment whatsoever in addition to eating bits of anchovies pre-Puttanesca. Puttanesca is actually pussy in Italian, so in another lifetime my son obviously had zero problem muff diving before inhaling Sophia Loren scrumptious lobes of perfection whole, hey now. Living out my sexual fantasies through my son is  solid reason for you to call Child Services on me, I agree.

 

Yeah, hello, Child Services, I follow this comedian, I think on WordPress and he’s projecting his Sophia Loren motor boat fantasies through his 2-year-old son which is going over the line in my book. Before you know it, he’ll start smelling his other son’s Pre-K teacher’s hair in his jerkoff fantasies, Mrs. Russo, before titty blasting her in the face. Don’t get me wrong, child services, I’m also a married slut in a straight jacket. But I don’t utter my sexual fantasies through the guise of my children for the entire world to read on the Internet forever either. I am truly testing my editors open minded nature today.

 

When else can dad enjoy a family friendly environment among his favorite people in the universe than at a meal at home? You make sure there’s no Hulu on demand to contend with. It also helps when it’s a passive aggressive free zone, assuming the resistor grandparents aren’t in attendance.

 

If you truly feel your kids are superior company than most, then wouldn’t you care about blowing them away with your homemade peanut Thai sauce minus the coconut cream with a mixture of Lo Mein and Pad Thai noodles, with primo priced, peanut oil, fried, dehydrated, rectangular bits of soy because you schlepped to the zero smiles Chinese grocery store in White Plains, for the peanut oil in the 1ast place?

Who doesn’t want to outshine mommy in the kitchen? For once, the white man, doesn’t have to apologize for being an ineffectual jerkoff. What makes your kids love you more? More Duplo purchases, to keep them busy, so you can read comments on Breitbart, to catch an occasional summation of all Obama’s fuckups. Or, taking the time to teach your kids how to cook, feed themselves, learn to trust their instincts in the kitchen, massage their garbanzo beans with olive and lemon juice in the most sensual, giving a shit about foreplay way possible to solidify deep rooted bonds with your children far past when you’re gone? Because Pizza Makers in Heaven don’t grow on trees and I need to hear Rodney state, “Pizza was good kid but your jokes are perfect.”
The End,

By,

Michael Kornbluth

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