I spent the first half of kindergarten living with my grandparents. My parents lived there too, while they were looking for their next place of ministry, but for the most part I don’t remember them. I was too busy enjoying the perks of being (at the time) their only grandchild.
I went to Kindergarten for half a day, and got to do all the fun things in Ms. Ennis’ class like learn how to write my name and fall in love with Jason Stevenson because he wore a leather jacket and sometimes said bad words like "Dang".
Mimi would pick me up at noon, and I would head back to the Farmhouse with her. Somewhere along the way, she started ordering me a Personal Pan cheese pizza from Pizza Hut. She’d call it in before she left the house, so that it would be ready by the time we came back through town. Some days, she would even park right outside the door and send me in with the money to pick it up myself, making me feel oh-so-grown-up. It was my first exposure to the yummy, greasy goodness and would certainly not be my last.
My parents took a church 5 hours away in Evansville, IN and we moved in January of that year. So many changes for a little girl to absorb. A new home, a new church, and a new school that required full day kindergarten. I got really sick, and spent a lot of days home with chicken pox, fever, or an upset stomach. My parents thought the move was just a tough adjustment for my tender little heart, but I’m somewhat convinced I missed the pizzas from Mimi.
It got to the point that when I would go back to the Farmhouse during the summer time, she would almost always drive me into town for my own Personal Pan pizza. It got to the point where one wouldn’t fill me up, so she got me two. Two wouldn’t fill me up so she got me three. By the time I was in second grade, we were ordering 4 little cardboard boxes and I’d carry them on my lap the whole way home, letting the steam from the bottom of the boxes warm my legs. It’s a wonder I don’t way 400 pounds.
I don’t know what it was about the Personal Pan. She could’ve saved quite a bit of money by just ordering a small pizza, I’m sure. But I was convinced that the way they cooked those little ones was so much better, just the perfect amount of love in each gooey slice. I liked the way the edges got crispy, and the first triangular bite out of each of the four pieces was pure bliss.
I’ve been very intentional about my diet for the last several months, watching the kinds of foods I eat, trying to view food as fuel instead of simply pleasure. I’ve even been mostly gluten free for almost 6 weeks. I love the results, and have felt better and more energetic than I have most of my adult life. That said, I had really been craving a Personal Pan pizza.
There were several times I almost caved. Once I even went to the counter at a Target store and ordered one, only to be told that they were out and it would take 10 minutes, saving me from a complete binge.
I’ve been a bit homesick lately anyway. I’m fully content in Fort Worth and I love my friends and family here, but there’s something very tribal about being with your own kin...the family that “knew you when”. It’s been several months since I’ve seen the Mimi that spoiled me so many years ago, and so many of my summertime memories were painted by her poolside, jumping and swirling and running around--stopping only when she brought out my little cardboard boxes of heaven. Somehow it was all connected for me. The pizza. The pool. The innocence of an uncomplicated life.
So tonight, it happened. I caved.
After a rather tumultuous trip to the store, with both boys ranting in the back seat, I made a last minute and almost scary turn into the Pizza Hut drive through and got myself a cheesy Personal Pan.
I gave Jude a banana and some sweet potato chips and took Oliver out of his carseat so I could nurse him. And I sat there in the parking lot, with the engine running and the AC blowing in my face and ate my pizza, bite by deliciously sinful bite.
I wasn’t going to share this time as Jude and I often do. He had his food. Oliver had his. And this time I had mine.
I needed that pizza. I needed the indulgence. The take-me-back satisfaction that we so often subconsciously attach to foods, or scents, or sounds.
I’m in a different season of life now. I wasn’t running around in a little swimsuit, sneaking in bites of pizza between canon balls of the diving board. I wasn’t lounging around on the farmhouse couch, pizza between my knees watching back-to-back reruns of Cosby on VHS (another way Mimi spoiled me). I wasn’t taking in my “Book It” button and redeeming it for a free pizza (does anyone else remember that program? Read a bunch of books and get a pizza? That was awesome)
Instead, I was a worn out mom, who spends most of her days praying to make it graciously ‘til bedtime. I took a moment for myself and enjoyed every last bite.
The boxes have changed. Now on the front of it, it says “Make it Great”...and I did. Until all that was left was the circle of grease left in its wake.
Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July...do something that makes you feel free!
