Her First Bite

Eight | Pizza

Pepperoni? Check. Dough? Check. Mozzarella? Check.

Hungry growling stomachs that were coming from the living room? That was a fucking check because every five minutes my mom would shout out, remind me that her stomach was indeed growling and ask if the food was ready.

Why was it that every time I prepared food, people yelled at me demanding when the food would be ready? It probably was because I was a perfectionist. Which meant that everything would take twice as long when I would be making it.

And to add on to that thought, I always took extra long when making food food. When I say food, food I mean full dishes. I could make food (I was a chef-in-training for crying out loud) but I felt that my speciality played in the deserts, the pastries arena. I had a sight obsession with sweets, so I gravitated more towards that. That was probably the reason why it was taking me more than two hours to make simple pizzas. I was extra.

I entered the three pizzas in my mom's kitchen oven and turned the degrees up to 475. The pizzas should probably done in about 10 minutes. . . if I want the crust to be nice and hard. Which was a duh thing, who wanted a soft crust?

"Guys, which toppings do you want on your pizzas?" And when I say guys; I'm referring to my parents. My parents who are comfortably resting on the couch, while I'm in the kitchen working my ass off. Unfortunately, it was nothing out the ordinary.

My hand opened up the refrigerator as I took in their request. Mom wanted onions and olives. Dad wanted mushrooms. I grabbed the onions, olives, mushrooms, and banana peppers (for me) and laid them out on the cutting board, I opened up on the counter earlier.

I'm so happy my flashbacks stopped. My classroom-kitchen-counter-Vance flashbacks. Last night, I prayed for it, and God answered. It was a miracle. This morning when I was in my kitchen looking for a bowl for my cereal; my palms didn't get sweaty, my heart didn't beat ten times as fast when it usually did when I thought about Vance and that situation. Nope, I had a normal heart beat and went on with my Saturday morning. That's a big achievement for this hoe- me.

During my little rant, my hands went to work. The onions were chopped. The others foods followed. And the room smelt of fresh handmade homemade pizza. Perfect.

I got out the pizzas, added the toppings and for an extra surprise surprise- I added salt and pepper. Boom- I now only wanted to be referred to as a top-five-star chef. And I'll maybe slip a ten in a pocket, if someone were to say I was better than a certain chef. Just maybe.

I placed the three masterpiece pizzas in three TV trays and made my way to the living room; where the rest of the party was seated. A loud screech of some sort; maybe some yelling, came out from the screen. My eyes looked up and I noted that they were watching America's Got Talent. The person on screen was supposed to be quote on quote: singing? A big X for you ma'am.

"Here mom." I passed my mom a her plate.

"Thank you sweetie." She brought the pizza up to her nose and sniffed it. "It smells wonderful!"

I gave her a small smile and shifted over to my dad. I sat down next to him and handed him his plate. "There you go."

"Thanks honey." His hand ruffled my hair. I think sometimes he forgets that I am a grown women; and grown women don't like their hair ruffled.

I pushed his hand away. "Your welcome." But I guess I didn't know my strength because I heard a small hiss come out his mouth. Shit. I'm such a dumbass. He had a bad shoulder - caused by his construction accident that occurred a few months ago - and here I was adding more pressure on the injury. "Damn, I'm sorry dad. You okay?"