Pizza Pizza

It’s a sad moment when you realize that you can’t share something with a friend. I don’t mean personal stuff. I could tell my friend M just about anything. I mean we can’t share a pizza. We’re talking about ordering a pizza for movie night. Sounds simple right?

She doesn’t want green pepper. Okay, green pepper is usually the only thing that’s consistent on my pizza order. But that’s fine. I can do any of the other veggies. She actually doesn’t want any veggies. Meat combo. The only meat I like is Canadian bacon. Which doesn’t work because she’s looking for a pizza that will drip down her arm. And I didn’t flinch. I didn’t let it show on my face. But eeeeuuuuuhhhh. My stomach would be jacked up for days. Don’t worry, tum-tee. I won’t let it happen. I didn’t bring up artichoke, and thank the marinara gods she had the good sense not to even whisper the word “anchovies”. I love her like a sister. But I might have had to punch her in the face for that. Not on my watch. Not. On. My. Watch.

There’s something so basic about pizza and friendship. It’s that negotiation: if I give up my jalapeños, and you give up pineapple, that leaves us with a black olive and mushroom that we can eat together. When it goes right, it’s the easiest food on the planet. If you put the box between you, you don’t even need plates. But when it’s wrong, and you get down to banging a shoe on the table over pepperoni, the ease just evaporates.

And you can get a half & half. But there’s just something kind of sad about that. A visible 38th parallel, where diplomacy has broken down and we can’t reach a truce. Sometimes you can be friends with someone, and never truly understand their taste. Wonder how she’d feel about a nice plate of nachos.