Celebration

I'd like to celebrate my first follower(s). It seems like it is a group of blogs that are very much into food. This post is dedicated to you and the pursuit of happiness through following one's stomach.

This is a fairly recent event in the little Englishman's and my history. We both love food. Love love. Most of our budget is spent on good food and not the other trappings of a materialistic society. Clothes? Please, give us a good ham and our heart is content.

One of my favorite foods is of course pizza. It's amazing how even the cheapest, poorest made frozen pizza appeals to me. I've had everywhere from Gino's East to two dollar County Market pizza and I've only ever turned my nose up at one: the doughy undercooked mess that was the UW- Platteville's student center pizza which I even had to "cook" at one point in my life. You need to understand this to know the deep impact the story I'm about to tell had on my psyche.

The little Englishman and I are not the most well-off people. We live from my paycheck to paycheck with additional money from his "America Savings," and the money my mom has decided to pay him to visit my "mahmaw,": my surly, dementia riddled old Southern grandma.  We try and eat out sometimes but lately we've had to save it for special occasions. Recently, we decided my survival of an eight hour shift at County Market was a celebratory occasion. We got the cheapest yet nice take-out pizza smalltown, IL has to offer. We scrounged up the $7.47 required to buy it and took it home. When we got home and started to ingest the spoils, little Englishman decided that the pizza required more cheese. Luckily, we had some shredded cheese available to add to our ill-fated pizza.

It was at this point that little Englishman ruined our night. I did not witness the exact events but he's described it enough times for me to share with you the details. According to him, he coated the edges of the pizza with shredded cheese and then turned the pizza on. After finding it suitably hot for melting cheese but not scorching enough to melt his hand, he "turned it off" and put the pizza in, box and all. About five or ten minutes later, the little Englishman smelled something burning. He went over to the oven and found the pizza box on fire. Instead of forgetting the pizza and saving the apartment, he decided to try and put it out with a kitchen towel to spare the pizza. However, upon being supplied with more oxygen, the fire quickly grew. The little Englishman called me over for help. Upon seeing my oven on fire and thinking about our own safety and our apartment building, I literally ripped the fire extinguisher off the wall, pulled out the pin, and sprayed the oven thoroughly until no flame remained.

At this point our apartment was filled with thick smoke. I quickly moved to the car but the little Englishman stayed behind. After about 20 minutes, he came out with what he'd been saving: the remainder of the pizza on his plate and a drink. I was livid to say the least. I'd spent hard earned money on a pizza I'd only got two slices of and he was about to stuff his face with four more than I'd had. I watched him eat it in pissed off silence before make him buy me a BK DoubleStacker and some fries, which pale in comparison to the amazingness of that pizza.

What had happened was the little Englishman forgot he'd come to America and the broil didn't mean off and pizza boxes can catch flame when introduced to enough heat.