My husband finally ordered a specialty pizza, supreme-style with as many toppings as could be crammed on to the poor pie. Since his main interest is in chicken wings, I usually get to call the pizza toppings, and I concede to his desire for toppings by choosing one or two, sometimes just on half.

Pizza toppings have never interested me. I’ve never been fond of pepperoni or Italian sausage. The vegetables just take up space that could be better filled by more cheese. As a child, I despised mushrooms.

But when I was very young, I remember going to my grandparents house with my parents and brother. We would order pizza from this local place called Winfield House. They sold circular pies cut into square pieces on a thin crust. And my young child desires for less toppings were ignored in favor of the adults’ wishes.

So I would pull the cheese right off the pizza and just eat the sauce and bread.

But that’s not how I saw it.

I called the cheese, riddled with toppings that I didn’t want to eat, “the skin.” I thought that the cheese was the soft layer of bread between the sauce and the crispy crust, and I would delicately munch on that part, cheerfully informing my amused relatives that I didn’t eat the skin, I just liked the cheese.

My favorite pizza of all time, that I’ve only gotten to eat once, was one that didn’t even have any cheese on it. And I was surprised to find that, since I thought that all pizzas had cheese. But this was Italy, and I had a very enjoyable time eating a pizza with corn and spinach.

Sure, I don’t like a lot of toppings, nay, any toppings, on my pizza.

But at least I don’t peel the cheese off anymore…

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