To what do I owe this torturous pause of conversation?

A hand crafted patty of beef forged of the deepest irony? devourer of the seeds of the earth with its final resting place betwixt golden grains?

Perhaps it is an Italian craft. A layer of soft dough, permeable, yet sturdy enough to hold the foundation of one of the greatest culinary collaborations I've witnessed. A blend of the fruits of Earth, the creatures who walk Her. The dream that Martin Luther Crepe Jr. spoke of. A judgeless society of ingredients working together to provide nutrition. It may be predator and prey in the wild, but the humble pizza is truly the master of equality.

Except pineapples. Go back to your fruit salad you goddamned flavor hogging abominations.

Or perhaps it is the quaint and often forgotten simple arts that have stolen away my Sarah.

A crunchy and fresh blend of lettuce and spinach perhaps? Skillfully doused in delectable sauces that contain flavors impossible to recreate?

maybe you had to take a massive shit

Who knows

How can a being compare to that which he creates? We are unable to choose our own ingredients, whether we're cooked to a golden brown or thoroughly charred. We worship the masterpieces of our people, but have we appreciated the minds of such creations? How can the chance of creation hold a candle to the beauty and pureness of a craft

Then again

Perhaps we are crafted. Forged in the furnaces of the heavens. Birthed in the home of gods. Perhaps we are the projects of a cook. A blend of genetic recipes and crafted from the elemental scratch of the universe. Maybe we are the tomatoes of the pizza of existence

but we're probably the pineapples