Snacking is the quickie of the culinary world. You’re bordering on seduction!
SoCalZone10
Regular Member
Yeah, that’s why I quickly finished my dried chili mango bag from Costco. No more. It has bad stuff, I convinced myself. The truth is I can’t control myself if I know the bag is not empty, so I might as well finish it. Done. No more. Back to dreaming.
Barriehie
Forum GOD!
Sounds like me and my BBQ pork rinds...
Growing up, when I was 11…12 years old, around in there, one thing my mom would occasionally allow me to have were these very peculiar little pizzas.
They were the cheapest of the cheap, the lowest of low quality. They came in a 9-pack, from the refrigerated section - a little disk of cardboard crust, no more than three inches across, a little squirt of sauce that did nothing to cover the nakedness of the base, and the slightest scattering of plastic not-cheese…but they were like the food of the gods to a kid who’d only ever seen pizza on TV.
Midnight snacking…on Saturdays, after a very filling supper, after chores were done, after dessert, Mom would likely be sitting in the corner, reading a magazine or crocheting something, Dad would be roughly sleeping on the couch, my sister would be back in her room doing whatever (plotting our murders, I imagined), and I’d be watching TV, until that magic time when Mom would say it was “time fer all fit* people tah be in thur beds,” usually about 10:00PM or so.
She’d lightly rouse Dad, he’d stumble half-asleep down the hall, Mom keeping him from tumbling down the stairs…I’d take those same stairs down to my room in the basement, but not before giving the wood cookstove a little snack of its own, just to make sure it was still breathing by morning, when I’d be up while it was still dark, to feed it again so we could have Sunday breakfast.
Down I went…but I didn’t sleep. It was Saturday night. I waited. And I waited. 10:45PM…11PM…11:15PM…and I was up!
Slowly, quietly, I’d creep back up the stairs, just my underpants, and socks on so my feet wouldn’t squeak on the hardwood floors…over to the electric stove my mom refused to use, and I’d set the knob to as high as it would go.
The wood cookstove, it was noisy. There was no way I could get any wood into the firebox without clanging the cover, there was no way to open the oven door without it complaining loudly throughout the house.
The electric stove, however, was silent. It didn’t beep (as long as I knew when to shut the oven off before it reached temp), it didn’t buzz (as long as I didn’t use the timer), and that was the key. No one could hear me, if was careful.
Like a ghost, into the fridge for my little pizzas, three of them…onto one of the tin pie pans that were always out drying next to the sink…patiently watching the oven until just the right time, then I’d quick shut it off so it wouldn’t buzz, and into the hot oven, with enough residual heat to more or less cook my little pizzas. Yes!
Pizzas on a paper plate, I’d slide into the living room, turn on the TV, just in time to watch Saturday Night Live, with Ackroyd and Belushi and Radner and Curtain, et al - a show I was strictly forbidden to even ask about, let alone watch (“them filthy perverts, all of ‘em!” was my Mom’s assessment of most television).
There I’d sit, three inches from the screen, the volume so low I could barely hear it, and I’d eat my pizzas, savoring them, pushing on them with my fingers to better spread the sauce, trying not to laugh at The Loopners or The Coneheads, one eye and one ear always on the two bedrooms at the end of the hall, thinking about how I’d be beaten halfway to hell and back if my Mom knew I was watching a show where one of the catchphrases was, “Jane, you ignorant slut!”
When the show was over, or when I lost my nerve at being found out, I’d stick the paper plate down in the kindling box where all the spare paper went, make sure everything looked exactly like it had before, then I’d slink right back down the way I came, greasy fingers and pizza breath, and dream of Laraine Newman coming to rescue me from my life of toil, in some sort of reverse Cinderella tale.
*I know “fit” has a different meaning for our UK friends. The way my mom used it, in this instance, was to mean someone who was morally proper.
You all make valid (I think) points BUT Morning Glory hits the nail on the head
Oh and lets be honest ......... if it's naughty it has to be nice
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Barriehie
Forum GOD!
Coneheads!!!Growing up, when I was 11…12 years old, around in there, one thing my mom would occasionally allow me to have were these very peculiar little pizzas.
They were the cheapest of the cheap, the lowest of low quality. They came in a 9-pack, from the refrigerated section - a little disk of cardboard crust, no more than three inches across, a little squirt of sauce that did nothing to cover the nakedness of the base, and the slightest scattering of plastic not-cheese…but they were like the food of the gods to a kid who’d only ever seen pizza on TV.
Midnight snacking…on Saturdays, after a very filling supper, after chores were done, after dessert, Mom would likely be sitting in the corner, reading a magazine or crocheting something, Dad would be roughly sleeping on the couch, my sister would be back in her room doing whatever (plotting our murders, I imagined), and I’d be watching TV, until that magic time when Mom would say it was “time fer all fit* people tah be in thur beds,” usually about 10:00PM or so.
She’d lightly rouse Dad, he’d stumble half-asleep down the hall, Mom keeping him from tumbling down the stairs…I’d take those same stairs down to my room in the basement, but not before giving the wood cookstove a little snack of its own, just to make sure it was still breathing by morning, when I’d be up while it was still dark, to feed it again so we could have Sunday breakfast.
Down I went…but I didn’t sleep. It was Saturday night. I waited. And I waited. 10:45PM…11PM…11:15PM…and I was up!
Slowly, quietly, I’d creep back up the stairs, just my underpants, and socks on so my feet wouldn’t squeak on the hardwood floors…over to the electric stove my mom refused to use, and I’d set the knob to as high as it would go.
The wood cookstove, it was noisy. There was no way I could get any wood into the firebox without clanging the cover, there was no way to open the oven door without it complaining loudly throughout the house.
The electric stove, however, was silent. It didn’t beep (as long as I knew when to shut the oven off before it reached temp), it didn’t buzz (as long as I didn’t use the timer), and that was the key. No one could hear me, if was careful.
Like a ghost, into the fridge for my little pizzas, three of them…onto one of the tin pie pans that were always out drying next to the sink…patiently watching the oven until just the right time, then I’d quick shut it off so it wouldn’t buzz, and into the hot oven, with enough residual heat to more or less cook my little pizzas. Yes!
Pizzas on a paper plate, I’d slide into the living room, turn on the TV, just in time to watch Saturday Night Live, with Ackroyd and Belushi and Radner and Curtain, et al - a show I was strictly forbidden to even ask about, let alone watch (“them filthy perverts, all of ‘em!” was my Mom’s assessment of most television).
There I’d sit, three inches from the screen, the volume so low I could barely hear it, and I’d eat my pizzas, savoring them, pushing on them with my fingers to better spread the sauce, trying not to laugh at The Loopners or The Coneheads, one eye and one ear always on the two bedrooms at the end of the hall, thinking about how I’d be beaten halfway to hell and back if my Mom knew I was watching a show where one of the catchphrases was, “Jane, you ignorant slut!”
When the show was over, or when I lost my nerve at being found out, I’d stick the paper plate down in the kindling box where all the spare paper went, make sure everything looked exactly like it had before, then I’d slink right back down the way I came, greasy fingers and pizza breath, and dream of Laraine Newman coming to rescue me from my life of toil, in some sort of reverse Cinderella tale.
*I know “fit” has a different meaning for our UK friends. The way my mom used it, in this instance, was to mean someone who was morally proper.
I'd sneak into the kitchen at midnight. Dad collected wind up clocks with pendulums and they weren't in sync so it took a good 10 minutes of clocks ringing the hour for them to all be done. Later when I had a DL that was a good time to get home...
SoCalZone10
Regular Member
My goodness, this is a great essay for college admission. You would be admit to Hahvahd.Growing up, when I was 11…12 years old, around in there, one thing my mom would occasionally allow me to have were these very peculiar little pizzas.
They were the cheapest of the cheap, the lowest of low quality. They came in a 9-pack, from the refrigerated section - a little disk of cardboard crust, no more than three inches across, a little squirt of sauce that did nothing to cover the nakedness of the base, and the slightest scattering of plastic not-cheese…but they were like the food of the gods to a kid who’d only ever seen pizza on TV.
Midnight snacking…on Saturdays, after a very filling supper, after chores were done, after dessert, Mom would likely be sitting in the corner, reading a magazine or crocheting something, Dad would be roughly sleeping on the couch, my sister would be back in her room doing whatever (plotting our murders, I imagined), and I’d be watching TV, until that magic time when Mom would say it was “time fer all fit* people tah be in thur beds,” usually about 10:00PM or so.
She’d lightly rouse Dad, he’d stumble half-asleep down the hall, Mom keeping him from tumbling down the stairs…I’d take those same stairs down to my room in the basement, but not before giving the wood cookstove a little snack of its own, just to make sure it was still breathing by morning, when I’d be up while it was still dark, to feed it again so we could have Sunday breakfast.
Down I went…but I didn’t sleep. It was Saturday night. I waited. And I waited. 10:45PM…11PM…11:15PM…and I was up!
Slowly, quietly, I’d creep back up the stairs, just my underpants, and socks on so my feet wouldn’t squeak on the hardwood floors…over to the electric stove my mom refused to use, and I’d set the knob to as high as it would go.
The wood cookstove, it was noisy. There was no way I could get any wood into the firebox without clanging the cover, there was no way to open the oven door without it complaining loudly throughout the house.
The electric stove, however, was silent. It didn’t beep (as long as I knew when to shut the oven off before it reached temp), it didn’t buzz (as long as I didn’t use the timer), and that was the key. No one could hear me, if was careful.
Like a ghost, into the fridge for my little pizzas, three of them…onto one of the tin pie pans that were always out drying next to the sink…patiently watching the oven until just the right time, then I’d quick shut it off so it wouldn’t buzz, and into the hot oven, with enough residual heat to more or less cook my little pizzas. Yes!
Pizzas on a paper plate, I’d slide into the living room, turn on the TV, just in time to watch Saturday Night Live, with Ackroyd and Belushi and Radner and Curtain, et al - a show I was strictly forbidden to even ask about, let alone watch (“them filthy perverts, all of ‘em!” was my Mom’s assessment of most television).
There I’d sit, three inches from the screen, the volume so low I could barely hear it, and I’d eat my pizzas, savoring them, pushing on them with my fingers to better spread the sauce, trying not to laugh at The Loopners or The Coneheads, one eye and one ear always on the two bedrooms at the end of the hall, thinking about how I’d be beaten halfway to hell and back if my Mom knew I was watching a show where one of the catchphrases was, “Jane, you ignorant slut!”
When the show was over, or when I lost my nerve at being found out, I’d stick the paper plate down in the kindling box where all the spare paper went, make sure everything looked exactly like it had before, then I’d slink right back down the way I came, greasy fingers and pizza breath, and dream of Laraine Newman coming to rescue me from my life of toil, in some sort of reverse Cinderella tale.
*I know “fit” has a different meaning for our UK friends. The way my mom used it, in this instance, was to mean someone who was morally proper.
Can't wait for the movie to come out ...........
Okay seriously (sort of) that really was a great story and I could picture everything you did
SandwichShortOfAPicnic
Forum GOD!
Wow that was risky!!Growing up, when I was 11…12 years old, around in there, one thing my mom would occasionally allow me to have were these very peculiar little pizzas.
They were the cheapest of the cheap, the lowest of low quality. They came in a 9-pack, from the refrigerated section - a little disk of cardboard crust, no more than three inches across, a little squirt of sauce that did nothing to cover the nakedness of the base, and the slightest scattering of plastic not-cheese…but they were like the food of the gods to a kid who’d only ever seen pizza on TV.
Midnight snacking…on Saturdays, after a very filling supper, after chores were done, after dessert, Mom would likely be sitting in the corner, reading a magazine or crocheting something, Dad would be roughly sleeping on the couch, my sister would be back in her room doing whatever (plotting our murders, I imagined), and I’d be watching TV, until that magic time when Mom would say it was “time fer all fit* people tah be in thur beds,” usually about 10:00PM or so.
She’d lightly rouse Dad, he’d stumble half-asleep down the hall, Mom keeping him from tumbling down the stairs…I’d take those same stairs down to my room in the basement, but not before giving the wood cookstove a little snack of its own, just to make sure it was still breathing by morning, when I’d be up while it was still dark, to feed it again so we could have Sunday breakfast.
Down I went…but I didn’t sleep. It was Saturday night. I waited. And I waited. 10:45PM…11PM…11:15PM…and I was up!
Slowly, quietly, I’d creep back up the stairs, just my underpants, and socks on so my feet wouldn’t squeak on the hardwood floors…over to the electric stove my mom refused to use, and I’d set the knob to as high as it would go.
The wood cookstove, it was noisy. There was no way I could get any wood into the firebox without clanging the cover, there was no way to open the oven door without it complaining loudly throughout the house.
The electric stove, however, was silent. It didn’t beep (as long as I knew when to shut the oven off before it reached temp), it didn’t buzz (as long as I didn’t use the timer), and that was the key. No one could hear me, if was careful.
Like a ghost, into the fridge for my little pizzas, three of them…onto one of the tin pie pans that were always out drying next to the sink…patiently watching the oven until just the right time, then I’d quick shut it off so it wouldn’t buzz, and into the hot oven, with enough residual heat to more or less cook my little pizzas. Yes!
Pizzas on a paper plate, I’d slide into the living room, turn on the TV, just in time to watch Saturday Night Live, with Ackroyd and Belushi and Radner and Curtain, et al - a show I was strictly forbidden to even ask about, let alone watch (“them filthy perverts, all of ‘em!” was my Mom’s assessment of most television).
There I’d sit, three inches from the screen, the volume so low I could barely hear it, and I’d eat my pizzas, savoring them, pushing on them with my fingers to better spread the sauce, trying not to laugh at The Loopners or The Coneheads, one eye and one ear always on the two bedrooms at the end of the hall, thinking about how I’d be beaten halfway to hell and back if my Mom knew I was watching a show where one of the catchphrases was, “Jane, you ignorant slut!”
When the show was over, or when I lost my nerve at being found out, I’d stick the paper plate down in the kindling box where all the spare paper went, make sure everything looked exactly like it had before, then I’d slink right back down the way I came, greasy fingers and pizza breath, and dream of Laraine Newman coming to rescue me from my life of toil, in some sort of reverse Cinderella tale.
*I know “fit” has a different meaning for our UK friends. The way my mom used it, in this instance, was to mean someone who was morally proper.
Great story, almost made me want bad pizza.
But surely your Ma wondered where the pizza’s had gone?
They were for me only, and I’d eat them at other times, too, like after school.
Growing up, when I was 11…12 years old, around in there, one thing my mom would occasionally allow me to have were these very peculiar little pizzas.
They were the cheapest of the cheap, the lowest of low quality. They came in a 9-pack, from the refrigerated section - a little disk of cardboard crust, no more than three inches across, a little squirt of sauce that did nothing to cover the nakedness of the base, and the slightest scattering of plastic not-cheese…but they were like the food of the gods to a kid who’d only ever seen pizza on TV.
Midnight snacking…on Saturdays, after a very filling supper, after chores were done, after dessert, Mom would likely be sitting in the corner, reading a magazine or crocheting something, Dad would be roughly sleeping on the couch, my sister would be back in her room doing whatever (plotting our murders, I imagined), and I’d be watching TV, until that magic time when Mom would say it was “time fer all fit* people tah be in thur beds,” usually about 10:00PM or so.
She’d lightly rouse Dad, he’d stumble half-asleep down the hall, Mom keeping him from tumbling down the stairs…I’d take those same stairs down to my room in the basement, but not before giving the wood cookstove a little snack of its own, just to make sure it was still breathing by morning, when I’d be up while it was still dark, to feed it again so we could have Sunday breakfast.
Down I went…but I didn’t sleep. It was Saturday night. I waited. And I waited. 10:45PM…11PM…11:15PM…and I was up!
Slowly, quietly, I’d creep back up the stairs, just my underpants, and socks on so my feet wouldn’t squeak on the hardwood floors…over to the electric stove my mom refused to use, and I’d set the knob to as high as it would go.
The wood cookstove, it was noisy. There was no way I could get any wood into the firebox without clanging the cover, there was no way to open the oven door without it complaining loudly throughout the house.
The electric stove, however, was silent. It didn’t beep (as long as I knew when to shut the oven off before it reached temp), it didn’t buzz (as long as I didn’t use the timer), and that was the key. No one could hear me, if was careful.
Like a ghost, into the fridge for my little pizzas, three of them…onto one of the tin pie pans that were always out drying next to the sink…patiently watching the oven until just the right time, then I’d quick shut it off so it wouldn’t buzz, and into the hot oven, with enough residual heat to more or less cook my little pizzas. Yes!
Pizzas on a paper plate, I’d slide into the living room, turn on the TV, just in time to watch Saturday Night Live, with Ackroyd and Belushi and Radner and Curtain, et al - a show I was strictly forbidden to even ask about, let alone watch (“them filthy perverts, all of ‘em!” was my Mom’s assessment of most television).
There I’d sit, three inches from the screen, the volume so low I could barely hear it, and I’d eat my pizzas, savoring them, pushing on them with my fingers to better spread the sauce, trying not to laugh at The Loopners or The Coneheads, one eye and one ear always on the two bedrooms at the end of the hall, thinking about how I’d be beaten halfway to hell and back if my Mom knew I was watching a show where one of the catchphrases was, “Jane, you ignorant slut!”
When the show was over, or when I lost my nerve at being found out, I’d stick the paper plate down in the kindling box where all the spare paper went, make sure everything looked exactly like it had before, then I’d slink right back down the way I came, greasy fingers and pizza breath, and dream of Laraine Newman coming to rescue me from my life of toil, in some sort of reverse Cinderella tale.
*I know “fit” has a different meaning for our UK friends. The way my mom used it, in this instance, was to mean someone who was morally proper.
Brilliantly told story. And it proves the point I made in my earlier post!