On Tenterhooks

Chewhound in unrare repose.

In the hasty minutes following my departure two nights ago, Arlo snuck to the cupboards. The wafting scent of a cooling vegetable pie fingering his hound nose, tugging at a never-sated hunger. Not so out of reach, he easily shifted loose the glass dish, disturbing its equilibrium. The subsequent crash sent shards scuttling to every corner of the tile floor, bespeckled ravenous morsels.

I came home to find the corpse remains of crushed cherry tomatoes among the broken plate, dried crimson footprints. Frustration and anxiety poisoning any rational thinking on my part. And there he is running up all too happy to have me home. And is he all right? And do I call a doctor? And why did I leave it there? And why did he eat the one thing I was planning on snacking on?

But thankfully, two days later, the glass left his system without episode. Anger turned into relief. The miracle of dog bellies.

Photo Op and Op and Op and Op and Pizza Party

Give a drunk girl a camera and even hands slick with truffle oil can't stop the madness. Why did I take so many pictures? I don't know. (That set is such a tiny fraction of the photos I took. Tiny.)

Except there was booze involved. Ample ample ample.

Last night was the second ever Gothamist/SliceNY pizza party held at Fornino in Williamsburg. Home to Michael Ayoub's much salivated over Tartufo pie laced with crack, I mean black winter truffles, fontina, ricotta, buffalo mozzarella, olive oil, and crack.

In addition, he generously adorned spoonfuls of white truffle cream with black truffle shavings and a drizzling of white truffle oil. Viva la decadence!

Ayoub also presented an encore of his mozzarella demonstration. Then served the subtly sweet and tender morsels with a plate of red Hawaiian sea salt.

A round of house-made gelato completed the debauchery.