Pizza Party U.S.A.

Let's begin by stating the obvious: Leap Day should be a holiday. I mean, come on: It's not even a real day. It's a 100 percent free 24 hours, and employers should have no claim to it.

That's why we need to turn Leap Day into a holiday this year. But Leap Day shouldn't just be another run-of-the-mill three-day weekend. After all, we already have a ridiculous number of winter holidays: Thanksgiving, the freebie day after Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Day, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, some holiday in February, Arbor Day or something -- I can't even keep track of 'em all.

And besides, Leap Day only comes once every four years. Surely that calls for something special. We need something extraordinary, a quadrennial celebration like none the world has ever seen.

Ladies and Gentlemen, what America needs is Pizza Party U.S.A.

Here's how it works. First we ditch the whole 'Do you want $3 of your federal tax to go to PIZZA PARTY U.S.A.?!! Heck, yeah!' Call me crazy, but I'm guessing people will be more enthusiastic about chipping in for a pizza party than donating it to some old guy who already has enough money to buy Neptune. Besides, we'll add a line that says, 'WARNING: NO THREE BUCKS, NO PIZZA!' Which should do the trick.

Also on the tax form will be some checkboxes where people can pick out their favorite toppings and specify what they absolutely won't eat. We build up the PPUSA fund for four years and then, every Leap Day, booyah: Pizza Party U.S.A., baby!

Then, at noone on Feb. 29, citizens from around the nation will travel to their local community centers, present photo I.D. (to prove they chipped in), and receive in return:

• Three slices of pizza

• A 16-ounce soda. And no diet soda, either--this is a pizza party, people!

• $2 in quarters for the video games

Holy smokes, is this the greatest idea you've ever heard or what?! Just picture it: whole communities, gathering to celebrate that most cherished of American icons--pizza. People from all walks of life united by a mutual love of pan-style crust. Dude, I'm totally psyched about this plan.

And you should be, too. Pizza Party U.S.A. is just what America needs in this era. If we can come together--even if just for one day every four years--and throw the best pizza party in the history of civilization, I'm confident that the United States will be restored to its rightful place in the eyes of the world. We will be viewed as a shining beacon of hope on a mozzarella-covered hill, a nation where, despite our differences, the citizenry can join together at the table of Liberty and drink Dr. Pepper from the plastic cup of Freedom.

Straw Into Gold

When I was living in an artists' colony in the south of France, some fellow Latin-Americans who taught at the university invited me to share a home-cooked meal with them. I had been living aborad almost a year then on a grant, subsisting mainly on French bread and lentils so that my money could last longer. So when the invitation to dinner arrived, I accepted without hesitation. Especially since they had promised Mexican food.

What I didn't realize when they made this invitation was that I was supposed to be involved in preparing this meal. I guess they assumed I knew how to cook Mexican food because I was Mexican. They wanted specifically tortillas, though I'd never made a tortilla in my life.

It's true I had witnessed my mother rolling the little armies of dough into perfect circles, but my mother's family is from Guanajuato, provinciales, country folk. They only know how to make flour tortillas. My father's family, on the other hand, is chilango, from Mexico City. We ate corn tortillas but we didn't make them. Someone was sent to the corner tortilleria to buy some. I'd never seen anybody make corn tortillas. Ever.

Well, somehow my Latino hosts had gotten a hold of a packet of corn flour, and this is what they tossed my way with orders to produce tortillas. Asi como sea. Any ol' way, they said and went back to their cooking.

Why did I feel like the woman in the fairy tale who was locked in a room and ordered to spin straw into gold? I had the same sick feeling when I was required to write my critical essay from my Master of Fine Arts exam-the only piece of noncreative writing necessary in oder to get my graduate degree. How was I to start? There were rules involved here, unlike writing a poem or story, which I did intuitively. There was a step-by-step process needed and I had better know it. I felt as if making tortillas, or writing a critical paper for that matter, were tasks so impossible I wanted to break down into tears.

Somehow though, I managed to make those tortillas--crooked and burnt, but edible nonetheless. My hosts were absolutely ignorant when it came to Mexican food; they thought my tortillas were delicious. (I'm glad my mama wasn't there.) Thinking back and looking at that photograph documenting the three of us consuming those lopsided circles I am amazed. Just as I am amazed I could finish my MFA exam (lopsided and crooked, but finished all the same). Didn't think I could do it. But I did.