Saturday night we’re sitting on the couch listening to music, reading. I’m writing.

Suddenly, Husband blurts out, “It’s the Pizza to the stars!”

I stare at him for a moment, but no explanation is forthcoming.

“What?”

“It’s the pizza to the stars!” He repeats, adding. “Sorry, I’m practicing for a career in the advertising industry.”

We lapse back into silence. Later I read him a problematic sentence from something I’m working on.

Silence.

Then, “What? I wasn’t listening. I was figuring out how to make football leather sound appetizing on a menu.”

I repeat myself.

“Make it exotic.” He replies.

Now he’s lost me.

“Make what exotic?”

“Sauteed Australian Rules Football leather with cheddar-scallion mashed potatoes, fried onions, and truffle demi-glace. Or resting on a bed of mashed potatoes and braised red cabbage, boldly accented with a rum mango reduction…”