This is a paper I wrote for a Food Writing class in 2006
When the Doorbell Rang:
A Night of Pizza, Family and Cards
I thrived off Monday nights as a child; bleach blonde hair and starving for attention. Assigned to my weekly task of setting the dinner table, I carefully counted out the forks and placed the pop (soda) coolers on the table. Paper plates were my mother’s favorite china. The ding of the doorbell jolted me to the door, even though I was preoccupied with the television show Full House. Tonight my grandfather would have that box, steaming with familiarity, in his hands.
I grabbed it out of his arms and rushed back into the house to place it in the center of the table. The family gathered around, clasped hands, and we bowed our heads to say grace. After a slight squabble over who would dish it up, a cheesy aromatic slice of pie landed on my plate. The first bite was perfect, crisp and sizzling. After the piece was devoured, I salivated and stared down the table to the smaller box that was making its way towards me. Breadsticks were my favorite part of the meal, crispy and seasoned on the outside and chewy on the inside.
A Night of Pizza, Family and Cards
I thrived off Monday nights as a child; bleach blonde hair and starving for attention. Assigned to my weekly task of setting the dinner table, I carefully counted out the forks and placed the pop (soda) coolers on the table. Paper plates were my mother’s favorite china. The ding of the doorbell jolted me to the door, even though I was preoccupied with the television show Full House. Tonight my grandfather would have that box, steaming with familiarity, in his hands.
I grabbed it out of his arms and rushed back into the house to place it in the center of the table. The family gathered around, clasped hands, and we bowed our heads to say grace. After a slight squabble over who would dish it up, a cheesy aromatic slice of pie landed on my plate. The first bite was perfect, crisp and sizzling. After the piece was devoured, I salivated and stared down the table to the smaller box that was making its way towards me. Breadsticks were my favorite part of the meal, crispy and seasoned on the outside and chewy on the inside.
A glass of ice-cold water was my beverage of choice. Other members of my family sucked down their addictive Mountain Dew, while my grandfather drank half a glass of milk and my grandma sipped a beer.
After giving my plate exclusive attention, I eventually raised my head to tune in to this week’s family bulletin of gossip, shared between my grandmother and mother. As I listened in I asked for a second slice, savoring every bite before the heat evaporated. Seated at the head of the table, I soaked up the attention. Whatever discussion didn’t involve me I made an attempt to change. When that didn’t work, I passed the time catching someone dazing off, made a face at one of my siblings or secretly slunk down my chair to kick my brother. (All behavior is due to Middle Child Syndrome.) During this time I was also able to share with my grandparents upcoming school activities in my elementary days, or grades to be put on the refrigerator. I spoke so fast that my grandfather nicknamed me livewire, as he couldn’t understand most of what I said. Eventually, I surrendered my fork and sat back to recap, not able to eat one more morsel.
After dinner we moved to the living room where I performed a reoccurring solo act of dancing and singing, occasionally coercing my siblings into roles of back-up singers. Around the age of ten and eleven, I started baking brownies or cookies for dessert. After a few years, baking became the outlet for attention. Monday nights developed into my time to decorate the table and make a presentation for my grandparents to be impressed. Another new tradition started with a card game called Canasta. It is a game of strategy involving teams, which led to my siblings arguing over who got to have grandma on their team. Our suppertime soon extended late into the night, with cards, frustration and laughter.
This tradition has been alive for many years in my family, even before I was born. My aunt recalls the time my parents’ announced they were expecting; it was during Monday night pizza. Visiting relatives would occasionally join in on the fun, livening up to our tradition. The local pizza chain cuts our pizza slices in a special shape known only to the Nelson family. Eventually, my mother simply had to say no more than Nelson pick-up as she phoned in our order. All the staff members still know my grandfather by name, and are ready and waiting for him most of the time when he arrives to pick up the pizza.
Occasionally, my grandfather would call us for a contract-- running an errand which made us feel extremely important as kids-- to sit shotgun in his truck to pick up the pizza. During the winters I frequently volunteered to go with him because I knew I would get to hold the steaming box on my lap as we drove back to my parents’ house. I would hold my hands over the vents on the box, not understanding who invented the slits that were making my pizza cold. The truck soon filled with a mouth watering aroma that is vivid in my mind still today. The box kept my legs so hot I thought the pizza might burn a hole through my pants. My grandfather parked and helped me jump out of the passenger side to reach the ground.
Fortunate enough to grow up near my grandparents, I developed a close family bond as well as a love for pizza. Today, I am many miles away from my family and those beloved pizza nights. I have found ways to consume the food at least once a day. Could I be homesick, possibly? Nevertheless, next time I go home I know my seat, at the head of the table, will be waiting for me and the doorbell will ding.
After giving my plate exclusive attention, I eventually raised my head to tune in to this week’s family bulletin of gossip, shared between my grandmother and mother. As I listened in I asked for a second slice, savoring every bite before the heat evaporated. Seated at the head of the table, I soaked up the attention. Whatever discussion didn’t involve me I made an attempt to change. When that didn’t work, I passed the time catching someone dazing off, made a face at one of my siblings or secretly slunk down my chair to kick my brother. (All behavior is due to Middle Child Syndrome.) During this time I was also able to share with my grandparents upcoming school activities in my elementary days, or grades to be put on the refrigerator. I spoke so fast that my grandfather nicknamed me livewire, as he couldn’t understand most of what I said. Eventually, I surrendered my fork and sat back to recap, not able to eat one more morsel.
After dinner we moved to the living room where I performed a reoccurring solo act of dancing and singing, occasionally coercing my siblings into roles of back-up singers. Around the age of ten and eleven, I started baking brownies or cookies for dessert. After a few years, baking became the outlet for attention. Monday nights developed into my time to decorate the table and make a presentation for my grandparents to be impressed. Another new tradition started with a card game called Canasta. It is a game of strategy involving teams, which led to my siblings arguing over who got to have grandma on their team. Our suppertime soon extended late into the night, with cards, frustration and laughter.
This tradition has been alive for many years in my family, even before I was born. My aunt recalls the time my parents’ announced they were expecting; it was during Monday night pizza. Visiting relatives would occasionally join in on the fun, livening up to our tradition. The local pizza chain cuts our pizza slices in a special shape known only to the Nelson family. Eventually, my mother simply had to say no more than Nelson pick-up as she phoned in our order. All the staff members still know my grandfather by name, and are ready and waiting for him most of the time when he arrives to pick up the pizza.
Occasionally, my grandfather would call us for a contract-- running an errand which made us feel extremely important as kids-- to sit shotgun in his truck to pick up the pizza. During the winters I frequently volunteered to go with him because I knew I would get to hold the steaming box on my lap as we drove back to my parents’ house. I would hold my hands over the vents on the box, not understanding who invented the slits that were making my pizza cold. The truck soon filled with a mouth watering aroma that is vivid in my mind still today. The box kept my legs so hot I thought the pizza might burn a hole through my pants. My grandfather parked and helped me jump out of the passenger side to reach the ground.
Fortunate enough to grow up near my grandparents, I developed a close family bond as well as a love for pizza. Today, I am many miles away from my family and those beloved pizza nights. I have found ways to consume the food at least once a day. Could I be homesick, possibly? Nevertheless, next time I go home I know my seat, at the head of the table, will be waiting for me and the doorbell will ding.
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