I’m writing about something fluffy today because I’ve been thinking too hard and need to be fluffy for awhile…and also because after I write this I will continue to be relatively non fluffy by working on job-getting-oriented things (my nearly year-long temp position is expiring this week).
I started with Leviticus (trying to read the whole Bible through…not sure I have, though I’ve read a great deal of it, so I’m trying to go through and catch pieces I’ve missed), then moved on to “Destined to Reign” by Joseph Prince (a pastor who believes in grace, which rocks my socks – though oddly enough, I’m not wearing any right now), then “The Space Chronicles” by Neil DeGrasse Tyson…because space is awesome. Granted, reading about the universe makes me feel tiny…BUT perspective shifts, though disorienting, are really important. And healthy, too.
I MISS PIZZA.
My diet is something I’m so used to at this point that navigating mealtimes at home and in restaurants has become pretty easy. And really, there are pretty good substitutes for just about everything I can’t eat. Coconut milk is stellar in my morning coffee, rice pasta works in lieu of wheat pasta, and thanks to Petunia’s Pies and Pastries, I can have a decadent chocolate cupcake sans tummy ache.
Life is good.
There is no good substitute for cheese.
I’ve mentioned before that I can handle a small amount of French cheese for some bizarre reason (maybe preservatives, I don’t know), but I don’t even know if French mozzarella exists, or where to find any, for that matter.
Which means…pizza ain’t what it used to be.
I can order a gluten free pizza and top it with all kinds of goodness, and it’s even quite delicious – but honestly, it isn’t pizza. It’s flatbread. Delicious, truly, but if you’re having a delicious pie, it’s still a pie – it’s not a burrito. And if you want a burrito, that pie, while awesome…is still a pie.
I realize that what I’m lamenting here is really nothing more than an incredibly first-world problem, but fluffy IS the order of the day.
That said, I miss you, pizza. I miss the delicious, melty cheese, the crisp pepperoni, even the grease I had to soak off of you with a napkin. What we had was good, but alas, it was not meant to be.
So, dear reader, next time you eat a piece of pizza, think of me. I’d like to imagine you looking up pensively for a moment, and then saying: “This one’s for you, Sarah.”
And I thank you from the bottom of my heart in advance.