I hereby swear off the pizza stone. It is dead to me. For the third and final time.

I love pizza, and perfecting its creation has occupied many a night in my house. I make my crust from scratch, taking the time and pride I feel is due. Most chefs worth their salt will tell you that a pizza stone, preheated in the hottest of ovens, is the next best thing to a wood-burning pizza oven, so I made it my business to have a pizza stone. The first one was my parents’ stone which relocated with me to College Station; it was cracked shortly thereafter. Still, a large chunk of it was salvageable, and we kept it the rest of college, though it got very little use and was eventually tossed.

A baking sheet worked just fine for pizzas while we lived in California. My parents gave me a pizza set shortly after we moved to San Antonio, and I used it precisely twice with success before it cracked. This time my only offense was using a spatula to remove the pizza from it (as it burned prematurely, by the way); I did nothing outside the realm of pizza stone acceptable behaviors. The pizza was ruined, crying ensued, Joel called the local pizzeria (which is probably what he wanted in the first place), and we called it a day. I swore off pizza stones.

Alton Brown of the Food Network suggests using a ninety-nine cent quarry stone instead of a “pizza stone”. I value Alton’s advice on most things, so I followed it. My quarry stone cracked on its debut. I swore off pizza stones. (The first pizza that night burned on the cracked stone, so I made the second one on a baking sheet, and while carrying it to the table, I tripped on my slippers, dropped everything cheese-side down on the carpet, and burned my arm. I have a scar. We were also expecting guests that night, a couple, our only new friends here, who canceled at the very last minute with a very lame excuse; after a few rounds of phone tag I swore them off as well.)

I was perfectly happy using my half sheet and Silpat, prebaking the crust a bit to ensure doneness and stability before loading the sauce and toppings, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a pizza set, with a pizza peel included (this was the clencher), at my favorite home store to which I had remaining value on a gift card. I decided to give the pizza stone another chance.

This evening, after reading the instructions for my new stone just to make sure I did everything correctly, I assembled my pizzas. This set, like the one my parents gave me, came with a metal rack for the stone, which confused me at first because I’ve always heard never to move it while it’s hot for risk of cracking it or burning oneself. No drastic temperature changes. But these instructions said to remove it from the oven (with mitts, of course) and place it on the rack, carry it to the table, and to use the included pizza cutter directly on the stone.

The pizza peel experience was exquisite; the pizza transferred beautifully. A few minutes into the cooking, I turned on the oven light and looked at it. “How pleasant,” I thought. “It didn’t fall apart or spill cheese in the transfer, it’s browning nicely, there’s no burni-” CRACK.

Usually if one person manages to break four different pizza stones, I would say it’s his or her fault, but I accept no blame here. I was smart enough to keep the receipt and box this time; it will be going back per the guarantee. I’m keeping the peel on principle, though from now on I’ll be assembling my pizzas on the baking sheet as described before to minimize my adventures (notice the word “hazardous”) in pizza making.

Whoa, while you’re there, check this out.