Woodfried

I was out for dinner at a local pizzeria the other night with my husband—the typo-sleuthing monster who, while I will admit to some initial accountability, has taken his eagle-eyed zeal to another level—and our editor friend, who is capable of demolishing the writing style of any menu with a single withering glance. I was hungry, and preoccupied with the capriciossa vs vesuvio dilemma, so I was not paying attention to, well, spelling and punctuation mistakes (or, until it was unavoidable, to their obvious glee at being treated to such an excellent example of each), but finally I caught on.