I have no shame in saying that I truly love pizza. My first memories of dating my husband Chris usually involved a 12 am pizza delivery from Gumby’s in Austin or Tuesday’s buy one get on free pizza rolls from Double Daves. By midnight we’d get our second wind and we’d stay up talking in my dorm room till the sun came up. He became my best friend during those long nights with our pizza in hand. My other best friend Meg told me stories about her life in Rome and the fresh pizza that she could buy everyday…I’d listen as she’d describe this pizza. Pizza in Italy everyday? Sounds good to me! I’ve had New York pizza and pizza from Chicago and seriously I’d eat both all day long if I had the chance. I think I’ve even dreamt about pizza a few time. There’s just something about it Ahhh….pizza…. It's something that everyone can enjoy. So here’s my pizza story. I’m still apologizing to my mother about it.
My sister and I had made a pizza for ourselves one evening. We were young, maybe I was in middle school and my sister Ellen was a few years older. She was definitely the boss of me so I’d try to follow her every move, you know, make the sister proud. After making pizza one evening we were sitting together eating, chatting, and there it was, staring me in the face. The last pizza slice. There was no way in hell that I was going to let my sister eat that slice of pizza. Didn’t care who she was. I racked my brain thinking of how I could make that slice MINE. So, in an instant, and no forethought of course, I picked up that beautiful slice of yummy goodness and licked the crap out of it right in front of my sister. I knew that it would gross her out. I laughed inside. I knew I’d have to pay for it later, but something, probably my sassiness, made me do it. The pizza slice was mine. So, I set the victory slice down so I could finish the last bit of pizza that I had on my plate. About 30 seconds into my triumph my mom walked by and eyed the pizza. She picked up my victory piece and ate it. She ate my licked piece of pizza right in front of us. We tried to hide the “oh shit” look on our faces, and I guess we did a pretty good job because she didn’t find out but the panic set in. We discussed if we should tell her and we decided against it. Finally after about 10 years the guilt was too much. We broke down and told her. She of course, being the mother that she was, didn’t care. She was hungry and it was pizza for goodness sake.