You wake up and you are retired. That is how life is. And you are thinking pizza, the kind you would make if you had the recipe for the perfect crust.
Only a few people on the planet have that recipe, the one for the perfect crust. You had it once in New York City but you can’t remember where or in what decade.
You know though that the pizza shop you discovered on the way to your wife’s job has the crust recipe. You also think, on this particular day, that you really want pizza. Not too much cheese (the cholesterol, the gallbladder), a little sausage, a little pepperoni, some veggies … you can see the perfect pie and so you leave early for your destination to order it.
A bright young man takes your order…he pays attention, he gets it, as they say. You have an uplifting talk and proceed to pick your wife up. The pizza tantalizes you with its smell, you only glimpsed it as it slid from the wood tray to the box, but you saw its crispy edges.
You reach for your cell phone, call your wife (Still in her office), and share the good news: “Hurry up, I’ve got the pizza.”
Home, you open the box…what a picture…a mandala Mona Lisa. Grateful, you think of the young man, the art, and how great it is to get that one perfect pizza pie.