At Home

Stanley Cup Pizza Party

If I don’t first make them cry, kids seem to like me.  I think it’s because I try really hard to make a good first impression–because I actually fear them–with stuff like horsey rides, tickle fights, fake farting, pretending to barf and swearing–fun stuff that their parents don’t do. The only problem is that after an hour of this, I’m done.  I mean, I’m physically exhausted and have nothing left to give.  And the kids are all like, “You are so much fun for an adult! Do it again! Put the chocolate on your bum again!” And I’m like, “Listen Billy, it was fun while it lasted but I am fucking out.”

So when I thought that I was hosting a dinner with four little kids (plus their respective mothers) I was ready to put on my chocolate pants. Sadly, the dinner didn’t take place on account of some pink eye (the kids, not me.) As disappointed as I was, it gave me the night off from cleaning the house.  The Beast and I just had to plan dinner for two.

On the phone during work.

Beast: Do you want me to pick up anything for dinner on my way home after work?

Foodie: I can not believe you just offered to do this.

Beast: I have to pick up episodes 7, 8 and 9 of Jazz (the Ken Burns documentary) from the video store so it’s no problem.


Beast: Well, what are we going to watch then?

Foodie: Isn’t there a Stanley Cup game on or something?

Beast: We’ll talk about this at home.  What do you want me to pick up?

Foodie: I was thinking we could have a pizza party! We’ve got tomato sauce, cheese and a whole bunch of vegetables to add on top.  We just need some crusts and a jar of green olives.

Beast: Doesn’t your new mixer thing practically make crust by itself?

Foodie: Yes. But I would’ve had to have started making the dough this morning.  Plus, I’ve never made pizza dough before.

Beast: You’ve never–

Foodie: I KNOW!

I got home to find the Beast in his workout gear (red adidas shorts) playing the piano. At the risk of sounding like a capital Bitch, I can’t stand coming home after a long day of work and not being greeted on account of somebody being in their magical music mode and playing away on a magical instrument in nothing but their underwear.  This happens almost every night.  And it leaves me sour and grumpy. I’m not asking you to jump up and hug me and ask how my day was or anything.  Wait, yes.  That’s exactly what I want.  Then go back to your little music party.  But just acknowledge me.


Beast: Bada bing badding dop dohop toot tooty fruit (that’s the sound of the piano.)

15 minutes later in the kitchen.

Beast: Oh hey there.

Foodie: (Silence)

Beast: Oh I get it.  I didn’t say hi to you when you got home.  Hi.

Foodie: I feel so depressed right now.  I really don’t think I can watch shows on jazz tonight.  I really think I would die on the spot.  Can we please watch a hockey game?

Beast: Fine. What can I do to help with dinner.

Foodie: You can grate the cheese.

Beast: Oooh, sorry. No-can-do. I don’t want to risk hurting my hands because then I couldn’t play my instruments.

He did grate the cheese, of course. I cut up some red pepper, red onion and a portobello mushroom.  We dressed our pizzas and got them cooking in the oven while we enjoyed a cocktail on the patio.

About 14 minutes later, dinner was served.

Foodie: I think I’m going to cheer for Boston.

Beast: Me too.

Foodie: Why?

Beast: Because they have better costumes. Plus, they’re one of the original six.

Foodie: What the hell does that mean?

Beast: Ah, like one of the six original NHL hockey teams ever?

Foodie: How do you know so much about hockey?

Beast: (Silence)

Foodie: You know, I only found out that they had three periods in this game about a week ago.  Why don’t they have halves or quarters like everybody else?  Three is just weird.

Beast: Are you kidding me? You didn’t know that?

Foodie: I’m being serious.

Beast: Get with the program man! Here’s what I want to know: where the fuck is Mark Walberg in all of this?

Foodie: What? Oh.  Because he’s from Boston.  I don’t know.

Beast: I’d also like to know how many Canadians play for the Bruins. I bet a lot.  So it’s arbitrary to cheer for the Canucks just because they’re based in Vancouver.

Foodie: I’m cheering for them because I saw Rachel McAdams cheering for them.

At about the end of the second of three periods of the hockey game, I noticed something: you know when you’re an alcoholic and you run out of cheap white wine but you still have a piece of pizza left to eat? That happened to me.  And do you know what the Beast did? He gave me the rest of his wine.

I couldn’t believe it.

So, after I finished my pizza and wine, I volunteered to get dessert ready before the third, and final, period started.

Have you seen the commercial for these President’s Choice ice cream sandwiches? The one with Galen Weston outside of Toronto’s City Hall? It’s probably the only time in my life I’ve wanted to buy something based on the commercial.

Foodie: How can these little fuckers taste so good?

Beast: I don’t know.  They could be twice the size though.

Foodie: I like them this size.

Beast: That was a really good dinner.

Foodie: It was excellent.  Do you think if I made pizza crust it could be any better than the packaged ones we get?

Beast: There’s only one way to find out.


Foodie: ***

Beast: ***

Categories: At Home

3 replies »

  1. I larffed and larffed myself the silliest I can remember larffing…ever…boy! And that was after the foist sentence…and then there was the rest uv the story! Whew! I’m done in by now, jeezright! yr pop/B

  2. SO much more entertaining than the Rogers ETF authorization and Statement of Incumbency forms!
    Mucho gusto, will keep tuning in. I like the concept of “purchase recipes” instead of cooking from scratch.
    Marni Jackson

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s