Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows: What are those blue remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those? This is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain. The happy highways where I went And cannot come again. - A.E. Housman (1859-1936)

Saturday, February 24, 2007

The Pizza Throwers

 
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2 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

You've got to put some muscle in it, boys! And what size pizzas were you making, anyway? Looks like fun. Hope all of the dough came off the ceiling for you with out staining!

3:36 PM

 
Blogger Tom Fisher said...

The pizzas were a work in progress, Anastasia. And, yes, they were small.

Your comment about "dough on the ceiling" brought back a memory, however. I was in a bar once where you carefully peeled the label off a beer bottle, placed it on your wallet and then threw the whole thing up against the ceiling.
If you did it right, the label would stick to the ceiling - and you were an honorary "Roonie."

And, yes, the ceiling of the place was a mess! ;-)

5:41 AM

 

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