calabrese raze they wanted to give him a loaf that was already sliced. "no," he said. "i want that one. there. the one that just came out of the oven." they said it was too hot to handle. he didn't care. they threw it in a bag and he gave it to us when he got back from toronto. the crust was dusted with the purified middlings of spring wheat. we had to use scissors to cut it. behind its tough exterior was flesh that tasted like an unvarnished kiss. eating it was work. it was worth it. we each had a piece on the side with cabbage rolls and pierogi. it reminded me of the bread they used to bake fresh every day at the restaurant that was a_long_walk_away from my grade school. the first time i went there with pete we ordered a pizza. i think it's still the best pizza i've ever had. a husband and wife ran the place. they made everything from scratch. you had to wait a long time for your food to get from the kitchen to your plate. but the payoff was immense. we left a tip that was almost more than the cost of our meal. we were young and dumb enough to believe that would keep them going for a while. we wanted to be able to bring our kids there one day and tell them the table they were sitting at was the same one we shared the day the restaurant opened. we were ten years old. if i force my eyes shut hard enough, i can bring back a sense_memory of their genoa and havarti sandwich. they didn't put mustard on it. they used italian salad_dressing. i could have eaten that sandwich and nothing else for the rest of my life, and i would have been happy. it was everything i loved about being alive. they bought a piano a few years in. a girl i went to school with sang there. they seemed to be doing well. but it didn't last. they shut down when i was a teenager. i never found out why. the fresh calabrese ben gave us brought all of that back for one night. the next day what was left of it was hard as a brick. 220922 what's it to you? who go blather from