Pizza House

Too hot to cook. That means it's pizza tonight.

Mmm. Wood. My favorite.

Plastic's good, too.

(I sort of have a thing for fake food.)

But my family will probably want Pizza House. It's a local establishment just down the block from my house. I live in one of those city neighborhoods that's all cute and historic until you turn the corner and disrupt a drug deal.

I would probably think Pizza House was a drug front, if their pizza wasn't so g-damned good.

All the Indian guys always shout out "ay! it's Pineapple Pizza!" when I walk in. Actually, that's what they call me and my sister. They think we're the same girl. And that girl is named Pinapple Pizza. It's because we both always order the same thing. That, and we both opt for carryout, while most of the domestic types around here (i.e. not drug dealers) have them deliver.

But I like to live on the edge. Not only do I do carry out. I walk there – sometimes in my pajamas (which I put on instantly upon entering my house at the end of the day). If I'm in my pajamas that means I'm also not wearing a bra. It's all part of my cover. People just think I'm one of the crazies. But the Pizza House guys just love me. They probably love Kathleen because she does wear a bra. However it's typically black and showing through her completely see-through threadbare white t-shirt.

I was actually feeling really guilty. Not for the bra-less thing (that is a freakin' family tradition passed down from my mother and from her mother). But for getting pizza.

And normally I would have no problem speed-dialing the Pizza House number, but my sister (my see-through-shirt bra-flaunting sister), just had me read In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan. Which basically made me feel like the dumbest lazy jerk in the world for not wanting to spend two hours in the kitchen every evening preparing wholesome fare and nourishing the bodies and souls of my children.

Maybe that's why I love fake food.

Or, better yet – food that's pretending to be other food.

This picture of the cake my mom made me for my twelfth birthday slumber party? It makes me happy. Pizza makes me happy. And looking at my hair in that picture – nourishes my soul.