Because my children recoil in terror at the sight of a frozen pizza, we usually make our own. Once or twice a year we will order take-out pizzas. When Zarf was three we went to a pizzeria in Jasper, Alberta. He was incredulous at the notion of eating pizza somewhere other than our kitchen. "We are in a pizza store!" Zarf yelled fifty million times in the course of our meal. Now I find this anecdote amusing, but at the time I cringed as he greeted every new customer with a hearty, "HELLO! This store sells only pizzas. And you get to eat them. IN. THE. STORE." Less amusing was him getting sick later that night. In our tent trailer.
I will make a million pizzas at home for a million years if I never again wake up to someone vomiting on me and my sleeping bag at midnight.
Here's tonight's pizza:
This was suppose to be mushrooms, Italian sausage and spinach. But when I went to blanch the spinach I found this:
Notice the bruising on the leaf? That's because when I spotted it, I squished the leaf to ensure the little fucker was dead.
This is the second time I've found an insect in my spinach. The first time I was lifting a leaf to my mouth when it fell off the fork and landed upside down on the table. That's when I spotted the yellow and black caterpillar. It took me a long time to go back to eating salad.
I love pizza as much as my sons, especially in bun form:
Sometimes -- like tonight -- I'll make dessert, too. Tonight I made roll-ups using raspberry jam, dark and white chocolate chips.
They were so good. Good enough to make me forget -- at least for a few minutes -- that I very nearly ate an insect tonight.