Hi, Chef Julia here.

For the past week I had been saving fresh ingredients in my fridge for the perfect pizza.

Yesterday was that glorious pizza day.

For that extra crispy crust that I was craving, I sprinkled my cheap-o pizza pan with cornmeal. Then, on the fresh pizza dough, I piled on some superfoods: fresh spinach and cherry tomatoes, some parsley, dill, and green onions. And then the dangerous stuff that always seem to cancel out the healthy...globs of ricotta and mozzarella cheese. Delish. A few seasonings and into the oven it went.

I was salivating.

I call the LG to let him know that dinner will be on the table as soon as he steps foot into the house. (Just because I was feeling all domesticated and stuff.) I whip out the Pellegrino and set the table for a romantic dinner for two.

The pizza comes out of the oven right on time and I begin to cut a slice.

"Umm...wow, this is a hard crust," I state, satisfied that the cornmeal worked, as I dig my knife into the pizza. (I don't own a pizza cutter. After this I think I need one.)

The LG rolls up his sleeves, flexes for a moment, flashes me a smile and says, "Don't worry. Let me handle this."

Macho man.

Only, he can't cut the pizza either.

A string of Romanian curse words escape from the LG's mouth. Something about someone's mother and her private parts.

That's when it dawns on me.

"Shit. I forgot to spray the pan with oil!"

The LG looks at me and with a stiff smile says, "Julia. Anytime you put something in the oven you need to spray it first with some oil."

No shit sherlock. Who's the cook here, anyway?

And so, after some necessary laughing, scraping and a few more strings of Romanian curse words, we finish the pizza.

The LG looks at me lovingly and says, "Baby, that was delicious."

And it was.