The Male Sibling Unit is most relievably over his bout with a stomach bug contracted the other day. Sunday evening, he began asking me what we would be feasting on for the 4th. When I replied that I didn’t know yet, he began weaving his web.
“You know what I was thinking?” he texted me from his room upstairs yesterday morning, while I lounged with my first cuppa. “What” was all I could manage to reply, no punctuation. What the fuck do people expect from me 2 minutes after I’ve made my coffee?
Undaunted, he pushed on.
“I was thinking homemade pizza.” There it was. Not delivery, not DiGorno, but HOMEMADE. He knows nothing makes me gastronomically happier than to craft my masterpieces of pizza perfection. Still, I wasn’t sure. “Perhaps.” was my noncommittal reply. With a period. He sensed his upper hand in the complicated dance of suggestion that he had begun, and backed away. He had planted the seed, crafty jackass that he is.
I pondered the subject until this morning. Pizza on the 4th of July? Was it festive enough? American enough? Though it would be just us three partaking, was it ‘Merica-worthy in the way that a steak on the grill, a hamburger charred to hockey puck perfection, or a tube of mystery meat and preservatives (not worms, despite the rumor that ran rampant in my younger days that sodium erythobate was science-speak for earthworms) are symbolic of a true ‘Merican feast? I know, those of you who know me are scratching your heads because I’m usually “UFP” in the same enthusiastic way that a whore is “DTF”. I was just on the fence.
In the end, his suggestion won. I’m a filthy whore for pizza; what can I say? I announced the news to him as we were out for my daily collection of steps. “Guess what’s for dinner?” I asked, expecting him to be pleased as punch.
“What are we having?” He asked.
“What did you ask for yesterday?” He was playing hard to get.
“Uhhh….hmmm. I dunno.” He replied.
At this point, had I still been on the fence instead of already planning, in my head, the magnificent artistry of combining carefully risen dough, thickly hand-cut pepperoni, and freshly made mozzarella, arranging it with the beautifully swirled red sauce and mushrooms, and finishing with a magical blend of Pennzy’s pizza spice, I might have said, “Steak. You asked for steak.” Which would have been a lie and worse, he would have KNOWN it because the Male Sibling Unit fears and detests having to chew meat because he’s choked before and therefore, will again.
Instead, I found myself having to give him clues because not only had he lost the plot, but he’d apparently forgotten that he masterminded the whole thing in the first place.
It was, at that moment, that we detoured from our route to the grocery store and ended up at the Liquor Store, with me fervently praying to myself that it hadn’t closed for the holiday. Which would be a stupid move on behalf of the state coffers considering that it’s a holiday in which people are required to drink a lot before setting off fireworks in their back yards before visiting the ER because Cousin Dumbfuck blew his index finger off with an M-80.
It was open. I’m pretty sure the cashier had been sampling the store’s product. When the young man ahead of me asked, “Do you need to see my ID?” she waved him off and said, “I don’t even care today.” When it was my turn, I handed her some money and she inquired, “Cents? Don’t you have any cents?” Then laughed at her own joke as if she was doing stand-up. “Uh, you need to ask yourself: would I be here if I did?” I deadpanned. She settled down noticeably and probably thought about muttering “Buzzkill.”
Now, the pizza dough is getting a prove and I’m halfway through a bottle of wine. The Male Sibling Unit has not once asked about fireworks, and that’s probably a good thing. He’s already thinking ahead, to the next holiday.
“I wonder What we’ll have on Labor Day?” He muses.
“Steak.” I reply.