Pizza for supper tonight. We don't order in because this town does not have gluten free crusts and I feel so much better if that's what I eat. (I was shocked how many Canadian pizza places had it!) So buy frozen crusts for me and other crusts for the rest of the family. Grate all the cheese, cut up the pieces of what we're putting them on so we can each have just what we like and then I remember.
We never bought our pizza growing up. My Dad would make the crust and the sauce. It was quite an ordeal. Exciting. We even got to drink pop with that meal (or soda for those of you who use that weird word) which was a very rare occurrence. We used canned mushrooms and my Dad would let us eat some of them as we were assembling our pizzas. It is almost ridiculous how much detail I remember of these nights. The crust wasn't thin but nor was it thick. It was just my Dad's crust. So much fun for all of us.
One night I got home from wherever I was early. I'm not sure if it was work or babysitting but I got downstairs and said I was hungry. My Dad's suggestion was to order a pizza if I'd go and pick it up. So I did. I brought it down to the basement where I scarfed probably half of it. We never spoke much. I heard later from my sister how surprised my Dad was at how much I ate. If I had taken a moment to look up I probably would have seen a look of complete relief. That was in the middle of my almost-anorexic stage. The teenage years were hard for me and how much I ate was the one thing I felt I could control. I liked how skinny I felt. 97 pounds isn't very much. My Dad was incredibly worried but didn't know how to talk to me. I think that is about the time things started declining for us.
So my family and I will eat pizza tonight. And it will mean so much more to me than I ever imagined.