IN WHICH I AM LESS THAN YOGA OR WRITING

I can at least speak to, momentarily, the yoga of pizza. Yoga, pizza, wine, brilliant women, and Aretha Franklin. Babe, what'd I say?


Here in Albany, New York at the home of my childhood friend, Kim. I experienced the union, the oneness, the ultimate unity of pizza making. And eating it. Interrupted only by the moments of dancing to Aretha Franklin.


I will say that when I am making pizza, I am whole. There is no thought save for the pizza at hand. Not wanting to be anywhere else. Not thinking about doing any thing else. No desire. No guru, no method, no teacher. Just you and I in the garden of pizza making.


Wish you could have all been here.


Then again, I would still be cooking instead of going to bed.