It’s 8:30 a.m., I’m at work and one of my co-workers is eating cold pizza. I walked by and said Ah, pizza, I love cold pizza. At the same time, a female coworker happened by and said Ew, how can you eat that it’s disgusting? We argued that there’s nothing quite like the taste of congealed cheese, dried up pepperoni and cold tomato sauce. She wasn’t buying it.
This made me think of how as a child, I loved being the first to wake up on those mornings after my parents had had a party. My whole purpose in beating my siblings to the punch was that I got to eat like a king feasting on leftover delights like vegetable thin crackers that had been dabbed with cream cheese and a sliced olive delicately placed on top. Aged overnight, this was the ultimate in refined dining to me.
As my palate matured and the colours in my palette changed, I found myself enjoying ever more exotic delights like Chef Boy-ar-dee ravioli. The only way to eat it was cold right out of the can. Considering my mother’s general cooking skills, having the Chef take care of dinner was like having a gourmet friend stop by and make everything all better.
Now, I look back and smile knowing that I’ve come a long way. Those childhood delights were but stepping stones in my evolution into the person I am today. When the chef visits now, I always empty the can into a bowl. I’m not an animal.