I Killed the Pizza.

Someone once said there's no such thing as bad pizza--you just can't mess it up. They were wrong. Twice. On the same pizza. Because I'm talented that way.

Last week as I roamed the isles of my home-away-from-home (aka my small-town  WalMart  Superstore), I came across an item I had never encountered before:  pizzadilla.  It's advertised as "pizza + quesadilla." I love pizza. I love quesadillas. Win-Win.

And it would have been.  Until I killed it.

Leaving work early on Friday to attend my regularly scheduled medical appoinment, I shook off a hard workweek.   This particular Friday was worse than usual because our already streatched to the limit slim beehive was down another absent worker bee.  To make matters worse, because they can always be worse, my weary state was compounded by my waking up at 3am and inability to return to the land of slumber until after 5am.  The good news:  the in-between time was productively spent making breakfast burritos for the upcoming week.  

After my Friday afternoon injection and some disheartening news, I went home.  I decided it would be a leftover kind  of night. I'd pop something in the microwave--maybe a breakfast burrito--take the chill off, then crawl directly into bed.  Before 6pm. Like I said, it had been a hard week at work.

Opening the refrigerator, I perused it's contents. Nothing spoke to my belly--not even the breakfast burritos--besides, I rationalized, if I eat them now, I won't have them  on mornings  when I'm running late and pressed for time.  

Because I'm not a morning person, that would be every single  morning. 

Moving on to the freezer, I considered my frozen options.  And there it was--shining like a beacon amidst a storm:  the pizzadilla. 

I preheated the oven, popped that baby in, and grabbed my cell phone to set the timer function...and perhaps do a little surfing to while away the 15-18 minutes of cook time.

Twenty or so minutes later, I realized I never set the timer.

Kill Number One:  The bottom crust was pretty much toast.

Not the good kind of toast that's golden brown and soaks up the butter and jam. Nope. It was the kind of toast that is black as coal and grates on your ear like fingernails on a chalk board when the butter knife scrapes across the surface and deposits black char-flakes on the plate. 

However. I thought the top layer was salvageable, so that was dinner.  Before I trotted off to bed,  I boxed up the remains in a gallon-size baggie. (I wrote that on purpose--just to mess with your mental imagery.)

I normally  eat leftover pizza straight from the icebox.  Today I thought I'd zap it in the microwave for a minute--hoping to soften it up. Only, for some reason my one minute got punched in as 10.

I realized this when I thought to myself, that minute sure is taking a long time. 

Nothing gets by me.

Glancing at the flashing green remainder clock I read 5:32. 

Kill Number Two.

Even Bandit turned his nose up at it. 

Instead, we shared a breakfast burrito. 

I'll always have another sleepless night that will afford me more breakfast burrito making time.