Ponderings

Perhaps I need to confess upfront that bread and cheese are two of my favorite foods so a trip to Chicago can mean only one thing: pizza. Although no one else in my immediate family is terribly fond of this delicacy everyone recognizes that keeping mom happy is something of a priority. So when we arrived at 10pm on a Friday evening, we headed straight to the nearest Chicago pizza.

I suppose expecting to bite into the long awaited delicacy on a Friday night, a Friday night of the Air and Water show, a Friday night when every hotel room in town was sold out, was too optimistic. Even our late arrival at 10pm meant a one hour wait for a table and another 30 minutes to eat. While I would surely have waited the requisite ninety minutes for nirvana, my family had mutiny written on their faces. We quickly enacted Plan B and had a truly wonderful dinner (with no waiting) at the restaurant next door.

But my craving for pizza rose with the sun on Saturday. My friend Susan and her daughter Ellie were on their way in from the ‘burbs and would be joining us for a day of Chicago play. I knew that I could depend on Susan to take my side and keep my brood in line while we waited the requisite ninety minutes. After a full day of sightseeing, shopping and Lego building, we corralled the group and headed for the long awaited pizza. Perhaps the crowded sidewalks should have warned me of the looming roadblock, but after nearly 24 hours of Chicago and no pizza I was pretty much desperate. When we arrived and the bouncer announced the wait time (ninety minutes), I gave them my name and proudly returned to our group with menu in hand. Standing on a crowded street corner with two hunger teenagers and a tired six year old is, well, not pretty. The first order of business was deciding what kind of pizza we would order when our “preorder” time arrived, but mutiny arrived before the decision. Six year old Ellie wanted a balloon, Winnie wanted a burger, and Micah wanted a nap. Given that I was the only adult with a hankering for the sauce, we bailed.

Sunday was my last shot and I wasn’t going to blow it. I was going to have pizza, thick decidedly deadly cheesy heart stopping pizza. When we found ourselves in Chinatown in the late afternoon, Susan looked at the hungry kids and my pizza craven face and suggested that we get appetizers to fend off the mutiny. I sternly reminded everyone to save room for pizza. I had a plan. We were soon back at the hotel where my husband and all three kids parked while Susan and I walked to the nearest pizza place to order and wait. Two women, no kids, no car and a good bar. Who couldn’t wait for ninety minutes?

The wait flew by and the long awaited pizza was placed in our arms. One plain cheese for the tentative crowd, another with enough stuff to keep the heart surgeon in business. Within minutes we were back at the room. What happened next is something of a blur. It could be the sheer joy of the pizza that clouds my recall or the beer consumed waiting for our turn at the trough. What I can recall is that the boxes flew into action with kids, plates, and pizza all over the hotel room. And for one brief moment, I think I experienced nirvana.

And then it happened. Susan crept quietly over to where I sat in my pizza stupor, showing me what remained of her piece (a small bit of crust), and said, “What’s that?” I looked to where her hand pointed. Unmistakable. A grayish wispy thing attached to the crust, something very unpizza like. A feather. A plain simple feather that once belonged to a pigeon.

Instantly sobered, all remaining pizza was tossed back into the boxes. We were back at the pizzeria in record time, the manager quickly assured an immediate and full refund. My craving for Chicago style pizza was finally quenched.

But I am left wondering about the things we crave. Those odd desires of the heart that keep us restless and sidetracked. One wise friend told me that fantasies are a gift from God, but the quest to enact them a date with disaster. Perhaps some hungers are best left unfed.