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The year was 1992. I had my driver’s license for one month. I thought I was pretty cool for having my recently granted freedom. But what I saw as a freedom or temporary reprieve from my parents acting as my chauffer, my parents saw it as an opportunity for me to be useful.
That’s why my mom handed me a $20 bill and the keys to the 1988 Ford Taurus station wagon so I could go and pay for my sister’s birthday supper while she finished getting the house ready for my sister and her friends.
Cruel, but not unusual punishment. Those were the words that popped into my head when I was asked to pick up pizza from Pizza Hut. The thought of the pizza smell wafting through the car tricked my salivary glands into operation.
Didn’t she realize she was asking a 16-year-old boy to exercise a high degree of self-restraint on the drive home? Most 16-year-old boys I knew could eat an entire medium pizza alone and not gain a single pound.
I was one of them. I’d be lying if I said the thought of delving into the pizza didn’t cross (read: consume) my mind.
When I placed the pizzas on the passenger seat in the car, shut the door, and started the ignition, I was overcome by the aroma of pepperoni, sausage, Canadian bacon and pineapple.
“I wonder if my mom would care if one of the pizzas had a piece missing when I arrived home,” I thought. After all, wouldn’t that be a fair tip for this pizza delivery driver? A small sliver of pepperoni and sausage seems like fair compensation for putting the basketball down long enough to pick up pizza for my dear sister’s birthday.
The 20-minute drive home with a couple of pizzas next to me seemed like an eternity to my olfactory senses and stomach that were waging war with my conscience over a couple pieces of pizza.
Miraculously, I made it home without snitching a slice. That’s not to say I didn’t pilfer a few pepperonis or sample some sausages. With that being the case, I procured a position as the designated family pizza pickup person. Lucky me.
As the years have passed and my waistline expanded, I learned to resist the near uncontrollable urge to open the pizza box and pry a slice of pizza out to please my palate before arriving home. I’ve come to smell the powerful aroma of pepperoni, sausage, bacon, ham, pineapple, mushrooms and green peppers circulating through the car in a positive way.
That’s why I was more than happy to get pizza from Pizza Hut for my son’s birthday last Sunday. I suppose I could call it my version of aroma therapy.
Columnist Tim Gray, a West Salem resident, can be reached at tim.gray.matter@gmail.com.
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