A bandoned in the mountains four days after his birth, a baby boy was discovered wrapped in a blanket along the bank of the American River by a nomadic family of Italian Pizza makers. "Look atta beautiful bambino," said Chef Luigi, as he cuddled the hungry baby in his flour-caked hands. "Dis is a sign-a from da heavens. Dis boy-a shall be-a my son."
Over the years, the great Chef Luigi taught his newfound son everything he knew about making pizza. The importance of fresh vegetables. Perfect hand-made dough. Ancient family sauce secrets. "Pizza is-a not a snack-a," Chef Luigi told his young apprentice. "Pizza is a meal!"
The young apprentice took his father's words to heart. His pizzas grew larger, his toppings higher. One single pizza could suddenly feed an entire family. And when the villagers became hungry, he would whip up one special pizza-a pizza as big as the mountains in which they lived-to feed them all.
In that tiny village in the high alpine meadow, with his mountain size pizza and toppings stretching to the moon, a legend was born. "A genius," his father called him. "A true pizza artist."
That boys name? Michaelangelo, of course. Mountain Micaelangelo.