When Enough is Enough
OK. Here's another entry. And, if you think it's a little weird, it's what I came up with based on the following: There's a website called The Glut (there's a link on the right hand side). It looks for "all forms of prose, with a slight bias toward things related to food or gluttony — eating, overeating, cooking, overcooking, digesting, indigesting, and so on and so forth. Irreverence is key. Also, please do not be fooled by our apparent meat-centrism; we like vegetables, too. Except peas. We hate peas." Reading that, I focused on the "indigesting" and came up with the following story. And, yes, it s semi-autobiographical. I'll let you decide what's really true. :)
By the way, I was going to submit this story to the website just to see what happened, but they don't take submissions from AOL because of their spam filter.
Second, by the way ... yes, "Jack" seems to come up frequently in my stories. (You'll know this is true if you're one of the few who has seen parts of my novel.) For some reason, whenever I sit down to start righting something, it just seems to be the right name.
I promise though that the next story will have a new name -- maybe even something like "Luilu."
WHEN ENOUGH IS ENOUGH
You ever have irritable bowel syndrome? It’s a wonderful thing to have. Diarrhea, constipation, pain. Noxious explosions. Uncertainty fills your life. Some days nothing bad happens. Other days it’s run, run, run.
You spend your days making sure you know where the closest bathroom is, no matter what. Depending on how bad it is, you take extra changes of clothing whenever you go somewhere—just in case. Your social life deteriorates. How do you explain to a significant-other-to-be that you have this little bowel problem?
What if you have kids? Kids who want to go on a two-hour boat ride? No bathroom. What do you do? Immodium is your friend.
And, there’s the neverending, “you have to go to the bathroom again?” Yeah, so what?! So what if you’ve gone to the bathroom thirteen times in the past three hours, you have to go again.
Imagine that you not only have irritable bowel syndrome—IBS, among the sufferers—but you are lactose intolerant. Excuse me, sir, but it’s an intolerance, not an allergy. You lack the ability to digest dairy. As a result, if you eat dairy, you cramp, you run, you suffer.
The worst part of all of this is that these syndromes, these sufferings, these disorders come and go. You can eat whatever you want for weeks, for months, and experience no symptoms, then suddenly have a cheeseburger and--bam--a few hours later, experience the most severe cramping imaginable. Bathroom? Where’s the bathroom? You have to go now. And, then go again.
Understand you weren’t born with IBS. Neither were you born with lactose intolerance. But, one day, your bowels decided to put a road block in your way. And, one day, your stomach said, “Enough lactose.”
Combine those two problems and then consider that cheese is your hobby. Cheese is your joy. Cheese is it. You have spent your life scarfing down plates of macaroni and cheese--not the boxed kind, but the homemade kind, just the way you like it. Macaroni and mounds of freshly grated cheddar cheese, stirred together until the cheese has melted and becomes one with the macaroni.
But, it doesn’t stop with macaroni and cheese. There’s the nightly bowl of ice cream. Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food becomes the best. How can you go wrong with chocolate ice cream, marshmallow, caramel and little chocolate fish? You think macaroni and cheese and ice cream are it? Not a chance. There are nachos with heaping piles of cheese and beans. There is lasagna with mozzarella, provolone and parmesan oozing out of every mouthful.
On top of all this, is the pinnacle of all things dairy. You know what it is, don’t you? Say it with me. P-I-Z-Z-A. Can there be anything better than pizza if you’re a cheesehead?
This all comes crashing down one day when you wake up and your stomach has had enough. Cheese has become your nemesis. Dairy products, which have taken you through so many tough times, have become your own personal enemy #1. Have some macaroni and cheese, go to the bathroom. Have a bowl of ice cream, go to the bathroom. Have a slice of the perfect pizza pie, go to the bathroom.
Every day, you’re faced with the choice--is that slice of cheesecake worth the pain and the discomfort? If you only have one slice of pizza, maybe it’ll be OK.
Eventually you become used to the idea that you have to figure out how to eat without cheese. Dessert becomes a search for something to replace that daily bowl of ice cream. You adjust and move on. Life goes on. After all, it’s only food. And, you still have beer. Beer, by the way, is a subject for another story.
Every once in a while, though, you experience a moment in time when you just can’t take it anymore. You’re making macaroni and cheese for your kids and you just want a bite. You don’t take a bite because you know you won’t be able to stop at just one and then you will pay. Or, you’ve found that non-dairy ice cream that you can eat without consequence. Of course, every time you have a bowl of that “ice cream,” while your kids are eating their own bowls of the real thing, you wish for just one little taste. Just one little spoonful of chocolate ice cream to coat your mouth with and feel as it slides down your throat.
Jack had many of those moments. But, there’s no moment that topped the pizza experience Jack had just a week ago.
There’s a pizza place in town called Sal’s. There was a time when it was Jack’s home away from home. When he was in his early 20’s, Jack lived on Sal’s pizza for days at a time. Even now, twenty years later, when Jack goes in, the owner greets him by name. “Hey, Jack,” Maria says from behind the counter, as she ladles sauce on some rolled out dough and spreads cheese over it. They know Jack, because he knows them.
He knows that Sal’s, with Maria behind the counter, makes the best damn pizza in town. Sal’s pizza is, simply put, the single greatest food creation. Unlike the cardboard productions of the chain pizza places, every Sal’s pizza looks different with real crust and real sauce, topped by mounds of cheese and quality toppings that actually cover the pizza pie, instead of just making occasional appearances on every other slice. It’s a pizza. What else do you need to know?
So, a week ago, Jack met his family there. For some reason, a decision was made to get the meal as take out and eat at Jack’s parents’ home. Jack and his wife and kids stayed behind to get the pizza and pasta and bring it back. “Pasta?” you ask. Well, of course, that was for Jack. There would be no pizza for Jack that night. Things hadn’t been going so well lately in the ol’ tummy department.
While waiting, Jack stood near the counter and watched Maria and her crew do their magic. Boiling pots of pasta on a tiny little stove. Garlic bread being shoveled into the ovens with regularity. And pizzas, one after another, prepared, and then slid off of a baker’s peel into the three pizza ovens.
But, as Jack stood there watching the magic of Sal’s taking place, he experienced a moment, a culinary moment unlike any other. One of Maria’s nephews, one of the young guns brought in to help out on busy nights, grabbed the baker’s peel and popped open an oven, looking for anything that was baked to perfection. There it was, in the back corner, a pizza pie ready to go. He pushed the peel back into the corner and deftly slid it under the pie, scooping it out of the oven. He twirled around with the pie on the peel and slid it off onto a counter for slicing.
As it passed in front of Jack, he saw food perfection. Crisp, perfectly browned crust, sauce coming out of the edges of melted, bubbling cheese. Sausage, pepperoni and linguica spread around the pizza—no frilly vegetables or trendy toppings on this pizza. Jack watched as Maria’s nephew reached for the pizza slicer. With four quick slices, it would become eight pieces of pizza, ready for serving.
Jack had decided that he had enough. Jack was tired of watching what went into his mouth. Jack was tired of only having cheese when he had two little Lactaid pills to go with it. Jack was tired of thinking about food and what it would do to him if he ate it. It was time to lose control.
“Stop,” Jack screamed, as he leapt over the counter, reaching for the nephew’s hand.
“Huh?” the nephew said. His eyes widened in alarm as Jack approached him.
Seeing that he had diverted the nephew’s attention, Jack changed direction and went for the pizza. Straight for the pizza.
Did it matter that the pizza was hot? Not a chance. Jack didn’t care if he’d be peeling off dead skin from the roof of his mouth in the morning. All Jack cared about was that pizza.
When Jack got to the pizza, he stopped. He paused. He was missing something.
“Give me the slicer.”
Maria’s nephew handed it over, realizing that he was witnessing something that he could not stop.
Jack took the slicer. He made one slice down the center of the pizza, and then another. Just enough to create one perfect slice of pizza. He picked that perfect slice up, the cheese stringing back to the pizza still on the pan. Some of the sauce dripped off, a slice of pepperoni slid off and dropped to the pan.
Jack placed the tip of the slice to his mouth. Yes, it was hot. He took a bite.
“Get me a beer,” he said to Maria.
Maria got a Peroni out of the cooler and brought it over to Jack. He took three large gulps to put out the fire in his mouth. And then returned to the pizza.
Within thirty seconds, the slice was gone. Another twenty seconds and the Peroni was gone.
Jack turned and walked back around the counter and gave his wife a kiss.
He turned to Maria and said, “Is our take out ready yet?”
“Uh … yeah. Here you go Jack,” replied Maria.
“How much?”
“You know what, Jack, tonight it’s on us.”
At 2:00 that morning, Jack woke up. The cramps were beginning. It was going to be a rough night.
By the way, I was going to submit this story to the website just to see what happened, but they don't take submissions from AOL because of their spam filter.
Second, by the way ... yes, "Jack" seems to come up frequently in my stories. (You'll know this is true if you're one of the few who has seen parts of my novel.) For some reason, whenever I sit down to start righting something, it just seems to be the right name.
I promise though that the next story will have a new name -- maybe even something like "Luilu."
WHEN ENOUGH IS ENOUGH
You ever have irritable bowel syndrome? It’s a wonderful thing to have. Diarrhea, constipation, pain. Noxious explosions. Uncertainty fills your life. Some days nothing bad happens. Other days it’s run, run, run.
You spend your days making sure you know where the closest bathroom is, no matter what. Depending on how bad it is, you take extra changes of clothing whenever you go somewhere—just in case. Your social life deteriorates. How do you explain to a significant-other-to-be that you have this little bowel problem?
What if you have kids? Kids who want to go on a two-hour boat ride? No bathroom. What do you do? Immodium is your friend.
And, there’s the neverending, “you have to go to the bathroom again?” Yeah, so what?! So what if you’ve gone to the bathroom thirteen times in the past three hours, you have to go again.
Imagine that you not only have irritable bowel syndrome—IBS, among the sufferers—but you are lactose intolerant. Excuse me, sir, but it’s an intolerance, not an allergy. You lack the ability to digest dairy. As a result, if you eat dairy, you cramp, you run, you suffer.
The worst part of all of this is that these syndromes, these sufferings, these disorders come and go. You can eat whatever you want for weeks, for months, and experience no symptoms, then suddenly have a cheeseburger and--bam--a few hours later, experience the most severe cramping imaginable. Bathroom? Where’s the bathroom? You have to go now. And, then go again.
Understand you weren’t born with IBS. Neither were you born with lactose intolerance. But, one day, your bowels decided to put a road block in your way. And, one day, your stomach said, “Enough lactose.”
Combine those two problems and then consider that cheese is your hobby. Cheese is your joy. Cheese is it. You have spent your life scarfing down plates of macaroni and cheese--not the boxed kind, but the homemade kind, just the way you like it. Macaroni and mounds of freshly grated cheddar cheese, stirred together until the cheese has melted and becomes one with the macaroni.
But, it doesn’t stop with macaroni and cheese. There’s the nightly bowl of ice cream. Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food becomes the best. How can you go wrong with chocolate ice cream, marshmallow, caramel and little chocolate fish? You think macaroni and cheese and ice cream are it? Not a chance. There are nachos with heaping piles of cheese and beans. There is lasagna with mozzarella, provolone and parmesan oozing out of every mouthful.
On top of all this, is the pinnacle of all things dairy. You know what it is, don’t you? Say it with me. P-I-Z-Z-A. Can there be anything better than pizza if you’re a cheesehead?
This all comes crashing down one day when you wake up and your stomach has had enough. Cheese has become your nemesis. Dairy products, which have taken you through so many tough times, have become your own personal enemy #1. Have some macaroni and cheese, go to the bathroom. Have a bowl of ice cream, go to the bathroom. Have a slice of the perfect pizza pie, go to the bathroom.
Every day, you’re faced with the choice--is that slice of cheesecake worth the pain and the discomfort? If you only have one slice of pizza, maybe it’ll be OK.
Eventually you become used to the idea that you have to figure out how to eat without cheese. Dessert becomes a search for something to replace that daily bowl of ice cream. You adjust and move on. Life goes on. After all, it’s only food. And, you still have beer. Beer, by the way, is a subject for another story.
Every once in a while, though, you experience a moment in time when you just can’t take it anymore. You’re making macaroni and cheese for your kids and you just want a bite. You don’t take a bite because you know you won’t be able to stop at just one and then you will pay. Or, you’ve found that non-dairy ice cream that you can eat without consequence. Of course, every time you have a bowl of that “ice cream,” while your kids are eating their own bowls of the real thing, you wish for just one little taste. Just one little spoonful of chocolate ice cream to coat your mouth with and feel as it slides down your throat.
Jack had many of those moments. But, there’s no moment that topped the pizza experience Jack had just a week ago.
There’s a pizza place in town called Sal’s. There was a time when it was Jack’s home away from home. When he was in his early 20’s, Jack lived on Sal’s pizza for days at a time. Even now, twenty years later, when Jack goes in, the owner greets him by name. “Hey, Jack,” Maria says from behind the counter, as she ladles sauce on some rolled out dough and spreads cheese over it. They know Jack, because he knows them.
He knows that Sal’s, with Maria behind the counter, makes the best damn pizza in town. Sal’s pizza is, simply put, the single greatest food creation. Unlike the cardboard productions of the chain pizza places, every Sal’s pizza looks different with real crust and real sauce, topped by mounds of cheese and quality toppings that actually cover the pizza pie, instead of just making occasional appearances on every other slice. It’s a pizza. What else do you need to know?
So, a week ago, Jack met his family there. For some reason, a decision was made to get the meal as take out and eat at Jack’s parents’ home. Jack and his wife and kids stayed behind to get the pizza and pasta and bring it back. “Pasta?” you ask. Well, of course, that was for Jack. There would be no pizza for Jack that night. Things hadn’t been going so well lately in the ol’ tummy department.
While waiting, Jack stood near the counter and watched Maria and her crew do their magic. Boiling pots of pasta on a tiny little stove. Garlic bread being shoveled into the ovens with regularity. And pizzas, one after another, prepared, and then slid off of a baker’s peel into the three pizza ovens.
But, as Jack stood there watching the magic of Sal’s taking place, he experienced a moment, a culinary moment unlike any other. One of Maria’s nephews, one of the young guns brought in to help out on busy nights, grabbed the baker’s peel and popped open an oven, looking for anything that was baked to perfection. There it was, in the back corner, a pizza pie ready to go. He pushed the peel back into the corner and deftly slid it under the pie, scooping it out of the oven. He twirled around with the pie on the peel and slid it off onto a counter for slicing.
As it passed in front of Jack, he saw food perfection. Crisp, perfectly browned crust, sauce coming out of the edges of melted, bubbling cheese. Sausage, pepperoni and linguica spread around the pizza—no frilly vegetables or trendy toppings on this pizza. Jack watched as Maria’s nephew reached for the pizza slicer. With four quick slices, it would become eight pieces of pizza, ready for serving.
Jack had decided that he had enough. Jack was tired of watching what went into his mouth. Jack was tired of only having cheese when he had two little Lactaid pills to go with it. Jack was tired of thinking about food and what it would do to him if he ate it. It was time to lose control.
“Stop,” Jack screamed, as he leapt over the counter, reaching for the nephew’s hand.
“Huh?” the nephew said. His eyes widened in alarm as Jack approached him.
Seeing that he had diverted the nephew’s attention, Jack changed direction and went for the pizza. Straight for the pizza.
Did it matter that the pizza was hot? Not a chance. Jack didn’t care if he’d be peeling off dead skin from the roof of his mouth in the morning. All Jack cared about was that pizza.
When Jack got to the pizza, he stopped. He paused. He was missing something.
“Give me the slicer.”
Maria’s nephew handed it over, realizing that he was witnessing something that he could not stop.
Jack took the slicer. He made one slice down the center of the pizza, and then another. Just enough to create one perfect slice of pizza. He picked that perfect slice up, the cheese stringing back to the pizza still on the pan. Some of the sauce dripped off, a slice of pepperoni slid off and dropped to the pan.
Jack placed the tip of the slice to his mouth. Yes, it was hot. He took a bite.
“Get me a beer,” he said to Maria.
Maria got a Peroni out of the cooler and brought it over to Jack. He took three large gulps to put out the fire in his mouth. And then returned to the pizza.
Within thirty seconds, the slice was gone. Another twenty seconds and the Peroni was gone.
Jack turned and walked back around the counter and gave his wife a kiss.
He turned to Maria and said, “Is our take out ready yet?”
“Uh … yeah. Here you go Jack,” replied Maria.
“How much?”
“You know what, Jack, tonight it’s on us.”
At 2:00 that morning, Jack woke up. The cramps were beginning. It was going to be a rough night.
posted by Sparky at 10:41 AM
1 Comments:
Thanks for the comments. One of the things I'm trying to do with these stories is to use them to improve my descriptive abilities. I tried to capture the image of this pizza in a way that captured its meaning.
The reality is that I had a moment like this a couple of weeks ago. I didn't jump over the counter and scarf down a piece. But, I saw the perfect pizza leave the oven at my favorite pizza place and so desperately wanted to forget for the moment that the cheese would give me diarrhea and the sauce would give me heartburn.
The more I read this story, the more I like it.
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