Surprisingly, Pizza is Pretty Good!

We were a “meat and potatoes” family. Mom served us the same kinds of basic food that she had eaten during her childhood years. As a result, although I had heard of this strange thing called “pizza pie,” I'd never tasted, smelled, or even seen one. That is, not until we visited some distant relatives.

When lunchtime rolled around, one of their older boys was sent to pick up one of those strange Italian dishes. Upon opening the box, we smelled what seemed like hot, steaming vomit. Needless to say, all my family members suddenly lost their appetites.

That stuff was so gross that the king of the house, otherwise known as “Dad,” decreed that no pizza was allowed in his home. Evidently, at a later time, someone, perhaps my aunt, made pizza for Mom, and lo and behold, she liked it! After that, she began smuggling Chef Boyardee pizza kits into the house.

Mom hid these boxes behind a bunch of soup cans because if Dad had discovered them there would have been heck to pay. Since Dad worked on Saturdays, that is the time Mom usually made us pizza. To the basic ingredients she added sausage, hamburger, and sometimes some onions. Those pizzas were actually pretty good.

Still, I equated a store-bought, ready-made pizza with that foul-smelling one we encountered several years earlier. Therefore, I dreaded the day when I would be forced to eat one of them.

When I began attending junior high school I was still avoiding store-bought pizza. However, all that changed on a cold winter's night. A friend had invited me to a high school basketball game. After the contest, he suggested we go to the most popular pizzeria in town.

Although outwardly calm, inside I was a mess. Just one good smell of that pizza and surely I'd barf all over the table! For the first time in my life, I prayed for a severe cold and nasal congestion to quickly overtake me. If I couldn't smell it, perhaps I could nibble on a piece or two.

Surprisingly, this pizza smelled wonderful! After devouring one piece I was forever hooked. That earlier, foul-smelling pizza was about as much like this pizza as my basketball skills are to those of LeBron James.

Dad, however, continued his ban on pizza. After my sister was married, she and her husband briefly lived with our parents. One night, after the old folks had turned in, we three decided to order a pizza. After my sister made the phone call from the basement, her husband and I pushed his car about a half block from the house before starting it.

Upon our return, after we had eaten the pizza, we realized there was a problem. If we put the pizza box in the trash Mom would see it and begin questioning us. If Dad overheard the conversation, our goose would be cooked, so to speak. Therefore, we stuffed the empty box into the next-door neighbors' trash can.

A few weeks later, after Mom and Dad left to visit some friends, we ordered another pizza. We had hardly begun to eat it when the old folks prematurely returned. Thinking quickly, my sister shoved the pizza into a nearby closet. Mom must have been a bloodhound in a previous life because upon entering the room, she proclaimed “I smell pizza!” and began sniffing here and there. Somehow, my sister finally was able to convince Mom that she was imagining things.

After Dad and Mom went to bed, we waited about fifteen minutes before taking the pizza to the alley by the backyard. After eating it, we once again deposited the box into the neighbors' trash can. Upon its discovery, perhaps the neighbors believed they actually had ordered and eaten a pizza but had somehow forgotten about it.

As you can see, we younger folks had certainly turned into pizza lovers. As for Dad, I don't know if he ever tasted pizza. One thing is for certain; pizza around here is far superior to that rotten-smelling stuff served to us by relatives so many years ago.