Hear the more excellent way, as the scribe set it down for the quarrelsome church at Naples: Though I speak with the tongues of critics and of connoisseurs, and have not sharing, I am become a sounding pan, or a lid that clattereth upon the tile, as it is written in the Letters, 5:1.
Though I have the gift of recipes, and understand all ovens; though I bestow all my toppings, and give my crust to be burned, and have not sharing, it profiteth me nothing. Beloved, thou canst be right about everything and still be a clattering lid. The age rewards the critic’s tongue – the take, the review, the flawless dismantling of somebody else’s effort – and the scroll prices it at exactly nothing, unshared.
Hear instead what sharing does. Sharing suffereth long, and is kind; sharing envieth not the larger slice; vaunteth not its own recipe, is not puffed up, though the dough be. It seeketh not the corner piece for itself; is not easily provoked when the order is wrong; keepeth no ledger of who paid last. It beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things – even the anchovy, even the pineapple, even thee.
Reviews shall fail; tongues of critics shall cease; knowledge of the ferment shall vanish away. When I was a child, saith the scribe, I grabbed as a child, I hid the last slice behind the couch as a child; but when I became grown, I asked first. And now abideth crust, cheese, and sharing, these three; but the greatest of these is sharing. Amen – and pass the pizza.