… likely carrying pizzas behind them.
Sometimes when I travel I’m hesitant to call home. Not because I don’t miss those left behind, but because of what I might hear on the other end of the phone. This seemingly irrational fear is somewhat heightened when the boys are home alone, left to fend for themselves.
This past weekend, while my daughter and I were four states away my son called on the third day to chat with me. Allow me to share with you the short word-for-word transcription of the conversation that took place:
“Hello my sweet boy! What are you doing?”
“Dad’s out. I’m having lunch.”
“Very nice, what are you having?”
“Really? Can I ask what you ate for breakfast?”
“Which is what probably what you had for dinner last night, right?”
“By any chance do you know what daddy is planning for dinner tonight?”
My little Calvin Coolidge. He doesn’t say a lot, but has a lot say. About pizza.
The next time I leave town I guess I might want to extend my parting words to include more than my usual, “Behave and be good to one another.” I think I’ll have to add something along the lines of “Please try to consume something other than pizza while I’m off in another zip code.”
Just because they ate a lot of pizza, this is not to say that they didn’t have any variety while I was gone. The 57 year old in my house has quite the discerning palate when it comes to flat food covered in sauce and cheese. Compassionate man that he is, he made sure that four different types of pizza were in the fridge at all times to satisfy hunger needs, night or day. Everyday. Every night. Every meal. There was cheese pizza, garlic pizza, barbecue chicken pizza and (I almost hate to say it aloud) cheeseburger pizza. Between freezer pizza and take-out pizza, all the critical man cave needs were met.
Deep down, I’d like to believe that there was some serious thought behind the whole pizza-pizza-pizza strategy. Perhaps a quick & easy menu plan was put into place because the boys intended to do some long overdue chores while the maternal unit was absent. Or, perhaps highly portable food would be necessary in the event of an unforeseen evacuation or medical emergency with mom’s taxi/ambulance away (and we all know there’s no food and water in a man-car, unlike every mom-car I’ve ever been in). Turns out, pizza was simply the food du jour (du jour, du jour and du jour) because it was easy. Breezy. Cheesy. No fuss, no muss. No dishes.
Aha! No. Dishes. The real reason for Pizzapalooza was that the boys didn’t have to dirty any plates for four whole days (my little efficiency experts). True enough, when my daughter and I returned home Sunday night the only dishes in the dishwasher (waiting to be washed, I might add) were cat food plates, but no Katz food plates. Well played, fellas. Well played.
The good news is that I don’t leave town very often, so arteries and body fat index are in no real danger here. I mean, I’m not against pizza, but even Papa John’s founder, John Schnatter, once warned against eating too much of the stuff saying, “You can't eat five or six slices but if you eat one or two slices it's very nutritious." Pay attention people, this sage nugget comes from the man who lives in the nice big house-that-pizza-built.
The other reason I don’t worry too much about pizza pie over-consumption is that my daughter is usually home with the boys when I’m away, which means her dainty foot would come crashing down on the Berber carpeting if pizza was mentioned twice in a 24 hour period. Not that I’m cheering about that either, because if she were in charge? Our beloved California In N Out burgers would rule the day. For all I know, maybe every day.
Oh, to be one of those women who are smart enough to cook and freeze before they leave. Yeah, right. That’ll happen. Until then, when the Mommy Katz away the mice will play (with food to go and no dishes to show).
In my frustration, I’d like to say, “Calgon, take me away.” But I’m afraid for my family’s dietary well-being… in case I was gone too long.