The Olympic dream is a roving fantasy. It can drift to a Wyoming dairy farm, whisper in the ear of Rulon Gardner, the youngest of nine children, and take him to Australia to defeat the world’s greatest Greco-Roman wrestler. It can visit Mhardeh, Syria, and convince Ghada Shouaa, a basketball player, that heptathlon gold is her destiny. It can penetrate royal haughtiness and transform the likes of Count Hermann Alexandre de Pourtalès of Switzerland into an Olympic champion. 

Over the past 22 Winter Olympics and 28 Summer Games, the ubiquity of this great aspiration has been manifested time after time. You can make it here from anywhere, it seems. Including a little Italian restaurant in northwest Florida.  Especially a little Italian restaurant in northwest Florida. Let’s write about pizza and pasta today.