Hawaiian Special (Blogophilia 39.12)
Another week, another prompt that comes up short in the story department.
Of course, that’s not my fault. Sometimes the well is dry.
But it does give me a chance to talk about the most divisive issue of our times. No, not whether Donald Trump is an incompetent boob or that Congress is in the direct pay of big business. No, something that is much more important our day to day lives.
Does pineapple belong on a pizza?
I can hear the puritan heteropizza snobs now. Abomination! Heresy! What kind of soft-headed, perverted picaroon eats that? There are bible verses against mixing meat and fruit, aren’t there? Why if we allow that, what’s next? Tuna? Barbecue Chicken?...VEGGIE?
It does explain California Kitchen, doesn’t it?
I like them and this is how I was seduced by the juicy tartness.
I left the nest when I was 21. I had re-enrolled in school and was making enough money with my part time job to afford a basement in old house. The neighborhood left a bit to be desired, to say the least, cars on blocks in the driveways and all. The apartment itself wasn’t bad, really, just a little cold in the winter. I could come home after work and chill rather than hear my mother whine about my laziness. And I could hang with Marianne.
She was the upstairs neighbor and a sight to see with rainbow hair and a punk rock attitude. I owe my loss of pizza virginity to her. She worked at place famous its honey flavored crusts. It was also known for its mascot, a mushroom smoking a joint. Ironically, she got fired for smoking pot at work. Management claimed it was a safety issue with ovens. Bollocks. I had worked in restaurants myself. You have to be stoned to be able to deal with the customers.
Her pizzas never tasted like a bad piña colada. Instead, they were sweetness and light. That she shared for us munchie impaired with love and happiness, made here adorable. The first night I was in the place she came down with a pie fresh out of the oven. Funny and sweet, we hit it off from the first slice. The fact she looked like a tugboat didn’t bother me at all. Any port in a storm, you know. I never hesitated when she called. Often, she need help setting up her stove, which didn’t have a pilot light. She was scared the thing would blow up if she did it. I’d smile and grab the matches, hoping I could light up other things.
After the oven was lit and heating up, I’d crank up some Siouxie Sioux and watch her work the magic. She would make the dough batches early in the day to allow them to rise. Each batch of dough made three crusts. Spreading each ball around with her soft hands into a disk, she’d toss them to get the shape. The finished circles were close to perfect when they lay hit the pan.
The meat mixture was a combination of bacon and Italian sausage, rather than ham. The flavors paired well with the fruit. It was how the fruit was handled that made The trick was to cut the pineapple into a very small dice. It spread over the pie better and was less likely to scorch. The other trick was to use less, about half of what most commercial places used. The final piece was alfalfa sprouts from the local health food co-op. With a good Chianti and some panama red, you never needed to leave your house. Heaven was a place on Earth. She proved it.
The whole show was sexier than any stripper I had ever seen. One night, I suggested she should be desert. Laughing, she said liked girls. Like most horny guys, that didn’t stop me. I came up behind her. Slipping my hands around her ample waist, I persisted. I said “go ahead, make my day” as I buried my face in the straw-like hair.
She turned and instead of kissing me, folded a fresh crust over my face and said “Do you feel lucky, Punk?”
I never asked again.
So, the problem is not pineapple pizza is evil. It’s you just haven’t had one made right.
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Topic-Colleen Keller Breuning
Pic guesses: Pilot (in blog), port (in blog), tugboat (in blog), tie up, guide me in, misty, harbor, watermen, calm
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