Quote of the Week…..“When I was a kid, my parents taught me to not believe everything I saw on TV. Now I have to teach them to not believe everything they see on Facebook.”

—CC—

This past weekend I had the privilege of attending the 100 ^th birthday party in Holdenville of my lifelong friend, Jewell “J.T.” Akin. He doesn’t even look 70! We had a great visit and I will have pictures and a story to share later.

—CC—

Another good friend that I have loved all my life is celebrating its 90 ^th birthday this year. I still keep in touch on a regular basis. That special friend is Hostess Twinkies. Sunday dinner after church. Dayna had fixed a delicious roast beef meal with all the trimmings and we loaded it up and took it to her mother’s house to eat. We filled their plates and the youngest one looked at it and then asked her, “Do you have any pizza?”

They did eat what we had prepared, but like so many youngsters, they could eat pizza every day.

With that in mind, I wanted to share the following, which I really enjoyed.

Pizza, We Need to Talk

The first time we met, I couldn’t stand you. Isn’t it funny how one of the greatest love stories of all time started out like a bad rom-com? I was young, and my little world was tightly controlled by my conservative parents. Breakfast was a dairy-soaked bowl of whole grain oats. Dinner was strictly a meat and potatoes affair. School lunches were my only shot at a taste of the outside world, but a packed lunch consisting of a peanut butter sandwich, apple slices, a chocolate chip cookie, and a thermos of milk ensured that would never happen. Knowing of no other way, I believed myself happy and content.

Then one night, at the behest of a mother being too tired to cook, you were hand delivered into my life by a scrawny teen trying to earn money for the prom. You were nothing like my usual bland yet dependable dinner of meat, vegetables and potatoes sitting in separate lumps on a plate. I was horrified by the way you took wholesome ingredients like meat, cheese, tomatoes and bread and blended it into a hot, greasy handheld mess. I wanted nothing to do with you. I ate my dependable peanut butter sandwich instead, all the while regarding you with a suspicion normally reserved for baths and dentists.

It may have ended there, but then you began showing up at my house with increasing regularity. I don’t know exactly what convinced me to give you a shot. Maybe it was the way you made my brother and sister’s eyes light up every time you graced out dinner table. Maybe peanut butter and I were on a break. Whatever the reason, I was unprepared for what hit my taste buds. The hot greasy mess I had once abhorred was the perfect combination of tangy and salty, with a hint of sweetness. With all due respect to my parents, that first bite taught me the true meaning of love.

From that moment on, you were always there for me. When I was nine and my family vacationed in Hawaii, you saved me from the horrors of spam, poi and fresh fruit. When my high school softball team won the championship, you celebrated with me. When I moved into a new apartment, you bribed my friends to come help me. Like a trueblue friend, you stuck by me during the bad times as well. When my parents split up, when my cat died, when my boyfriend cheated on me with my best friend, you were there to comfort me as only you and your saturated fats and sugars could.

That’s not to say our relationship hasn’t had a few rough patches. During my freshman year of college, I was insecure and depressed, and we developed an unhealthy codependence to the tune of fifteen pounds. Other times you could be cold, or doughy, or burnt to a hard-black crisp. Sometimes your sauce was too chunky, or you didn’t have enough cheese, or your toppings were disgusting. You once showed up to an office party covered in shrimp. What were you thinking? But even when you were bad, you were sort of good. That’s why this next part is so hard for me to say.

I’m not that young crazy kid you met all those years ago, but an over-weight middle-aged adult. I still adore you, but like almost everything I enjoy, you’re just no good for me anymore. I’m not suggesting we break up, but I have to limit “us” to two slices twice a month, holidays, and my birthday. I hate to do it, but my cholesterol levels and family history of high blood pressure say it’s for the best.

I know it’s going to be rough, but I’m sure we’ll get through it and come out stronger than ever.

by Dana Schellings