It was the best of dinners, it was the worst of dinners. The smell from the oven permeated the air. It was the smell of cheese and pepperoni and Italian herbs.
"Call me its' meal," is what it seemed to say.
I knew what was about to happen. Too often I had sat at the table with these puritans...these judges of the crust. I sat down. Steam rose from the plate. Too hot to eat yet, but the temptation had often led to a burnt tongue or a pre-blessing tongue lashing. "Pray," they would say, "and let it cool for a bit. Maybe think about how you are going to partake."
"Bely your Victorian traditions," I shouted...internally of course.
We blessed the food and then...all eyes were upon me. I picked up the barely able to be handled slice and folded it, as was my custom, and began to eat. The roof of my mouth immediately let me know that the prayer should have been longer, but that was not my main concern. Ah, those judging eyes. Staring at me, condemning me, mocking me.
The hypocrites across the table picked up their forks and knives and began to cut the slices into little, bite-sized pieces. I sneered at their dainty little fingers as they created their little masterpieces. Like debutantes they began to waltz their little snippets of pizza to their mouths. They scarcely needed a napkin. I gazed at the mess of crumbs and sauce and excess parmesan forming a badge of shame across my t-shirt. I wasn't the only one to see it. Two other sets of eyes were rolling like Vegas dice. My folded pizza tradition was an excuse for their inner critics to leap out and belittle me. I finished the first slice.
"Would you like another piece?" asked my wife.
"Oh, you would like that you snake in the grass," I thought to myself. But I was still hungry. "Yes, please," I answered...oh so insincerely.
I noticed that she took a long time selecting the piece. Was she looking for an unbendable slice? That special piece that would have to be eaten like a gentleman. She placed it in front of me. I picked it up and slowly bent it. "Foiled again," I thought.
I saw her eyes fixed on my fork. I put the pizza down. A heavy breath escaped through my pursed lips. Like an indentured servant I reached for the fork. Her judging stare softened for a second. Then I folded the pizza and stabbed it in the center. Sloppily I inhaled the whole piece.
Okay, so none of this happened. Except for the fact about how I am the only one in my family who folds their pizza before eating it. That happens. It always happens.
Till next week my friends,
Peace.
Today also happens to be Matt Groening's birthday. Little known fact about Mr. Groening: While working at a pizza store in Los Angeles in the early 1970s he began drawing and selling Life in Hell, his comic strip about a pathetic, oppressed rabbit named Binky, who also folded his pizza.
ReplyDeleteMaybe it's something from your childhood (you know, the on-going one) in which your mother (or 'Ma' as they say in Rainy) recognizing your inability to properly hold a fork or spoon to get food to your mouth, trained you to fold large pieces of food to get it there.
ReplyDeleteDecidedly easier to accomplish when eating pizza, than say, spagetti or green beans, she chose pizza as your everyday all year-round food choice knowing it is chocked full of vitamins and good stuff for growing bodies -- that, and it was less embarrassing for you when you were eating at a restaurant or in the company of critical people. Your pizza-piece-folding habit helped shape your sense of humor as well as your belly during puberty; and consequently, in adulthood, your decision to write for the Wannaskan Almanac. It happens, Ishmale.
In Naples they roll the slice up and eat it like a sub sandwich, which it kind of is.
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