Let me tell you a story. A mixed meat pizza story.
Lookin’ good, non?
Well, not for long. This is not a recipe post, and this is not for the squeamish. I’m a good person, I’m placing it under cut.
Enjoy. ~*~dramatic music~*~
So my cousin came over. Brought a lot of tasty things with her. Amongst them — one frozen pizza. We’re both pretty hungry. So I stuff the pizza into the microwave. While it’s cookin’, we’re talking. Catching up, making coffee.
Ding! Pizza’s ready. I take it out, slice it. Mmm, tasty! It’s with chicken, I say, licking my fingers after I sliced the pizza. K is smiling. We’re pretty content.
We’re starting to eat. Usually I’m the fast eater, but on this day I was a bit talkative. I’m only finishing my first slice, while K is already finishing her second.
Anyway, this is absolute epic fail, I say, about some innocent television show.
Suddenly, K begins laughing hysterically.
Why you laughing, I ask.
EPIC FAIL. THIS IS EPIC FAIL, she screams.
WHAT THE HELL, I ask.
LOOK HERE, she says, shaking her unfinished pizza slice at me.
I, whist biting my piece again, begin to take a closer look at hers. Cheese. Dough. Bell pepper. Chicken. A tiny nice-looking piece of mushroom to the side.
I don’t get it, I say, with my mouth full.
IT’S A COCKROACH!!!!! shouts Kat in hysterics, continuing to laugh.
I involuntary, spasmodically swallow my half-chewed pizza. I slowly put aside the remaining piece. I bend down closer to K. Take an even closer look.
Verily, there it is, the beautiful. In that place where I’ve imagined a mushroom. Sitting there, all … very wholesome and complete.
I’ll be honest, I have no idea how we didn’t puke right then and there. No, I mean — I’m aware that every human consumes about 4-6 cockroach eggs, daily.
EGGS, GODDAMMIT. MOTHERFUCKING COCKROACH EGGS, NOT COCKROACHES.
With such… … whiskers, sadly hiding under a piece of pepper. I figure it got cold during freeze time.
But what do you know. First time for everything. I keep thinking how K and I should’ve made a wish. First cockroach pizza in our life. Last one too, God willing.
K calls J. J orders us to take a shot or two of whisky each, to disinfect the GIT. We’re too happy to oblige. Something positive’s come out of that pizza after all.
Back when it happened, I decided that I’m swearing off frozen pizzas and the majority of other ready-made foods sold around here. I kept to my decision for an admirable amount of time, but since then I’ve bought a few things. No pizzas, though. Absolutely no pizzas.
Called father afterwards. Told him the story. Had a finger each of whisky, I said, for disinfection. Should’ve gone for two at least, said father. We didn’t have any more, I said. Well that’s not right, he said. I’m gonna buy a bottle and bring it over to you when I’m in town next. Oh ho ho, I thought. One ought to always have whisky in the house, perfect for cases such as these, said he.
He’s an optimist, my father.
He knows there’d be more ‘cases such as these’.