Pietro of Pietro’s Perfect Pizzas stood at the centre of the kitchen, eyes shining with fierce determination. He was attempting a brand-new, wildly elaborate dough-tossing manoeuvre he’d seen the night before on Master Chef.

“Amirra!” he declared, launching a perfectly round disc of dough high into the air. His goal was simple: look cool while the dough completed three flawless mid-air rotations before he caught it with effortless grace.

The dough, however, seemed to have a will of its own and was rising, but upward rather than outward:

“Santa Mozzarella!” Pietro yelped as the pale, floury UFO veered wildly off course — and headed straight toward the ancient, wobbly ceiling fan.

His eyes went even wider.

WHUMP, WHIRL

The dough hit the fan.

For one perfect, horrifying second, the whole kitchen fell silent. Then everyone ducked as the dough began to shred, flour erupting outward like a culinary snowstorm.

Maria, who had been meticulously arranging pepperoni on a nearby pizza, shrieked as a cloud of powder settled over her perfectly coiffed hair. She looked like a ghost who’d just seen a ghost.

Luigi, normally the picture of Zen-like calm as he slid pizzas into the oven dived for cover under the prep table just in time to avoid a dough slap to the face. — only to rise again with his once-immaculate mustache now a drooping, flour-dusted tragedy.

Worse was to come, across the counter, however, Varsi the Champion Driver was mid-sentence, regaling a fellow racer with a tale of high speed bravery, when he  let out a startled “Mamma mia!” as a sticky clump of dough plopped squarely onto his head, forming an accidental edible turban.

Pietro remained motionless, hands still raised as if waiting for the dough to miraculously return to him…which didn’t happen.  Slowly, he lowered his arms and surveyed the flour-covered chaos.

Varsi reached up, felt the doughy weight above his brow, and surprisingly, a grin broke across his face.  ‘Well’, he chuckled, ‘ it’s not like it’s my pizza. It’s Vaccarella’s.  I’ve already had my usual high-octane breakfast at The Bridge Café – nothing can ruin my day after their fried bread’.

“Well,” Pietro said at last, a sheepish grin breaking across his dusty face, “at least we know the fan works.”

Maria was the first to find her voice.

“Pietro,” she said, tight-lipped and powdered white, “you’re cleaning this up. And next time, you feel the urge to be ‘artistic’…….

She pointed a flour-dusted finger at the toppings section: 

“Maybe just stick to tossing salad. It’s significantly less aerodynamic”

Nods and murmurs of agreement spread through the kitchen, mingling with the soft, rhythmic squelch of the dough-coated ceiling fan.