Upside-Down Pear

When I was a kid, pizza was a rare treat. My parents didn’t like to feed us junk food, and most nights we sat down to a feast of Balanced Meal, Heavy on Veggies. (Mom always had a salad on the table, and usually two or three cooked veggies in addition. Even now I feel a meal is somehow incomplete if only one vegetable is present.) I used to deliberately eat less than I wanted, knowing I was running the risk of my siblings consuming everything. It was a risk I was willing to take, because then, a few hours later, I could creep into the kitchen and filch cold pizza from the box.

Usually it was pepperoni left-over; if I was lucky, there would be a slice of black olive, or one of everything-but-anchovies. Sometimes I would take a slice and wrap it up and stick it in the back of the fridge, under the pickles, to put in my lunch the next day; more often I would eat my bounty out of hand, savoring the cool salt of it, the solid feel of the cheese and sauce, the way the crust had transformed from tender to chewy.

As an adult, I still tend to order an extra pizza - no longer running the risk of absent leftovers, but rather creating for myself the opportunity for joy.