Stories

No one ever assumes you eat Brussels sprouts. No one brings you to their living room, presents two plates of Brussels sprouts, and sits grinning, waiting for you to go to town. No one orders a round of Brussels sprouts for the table. No one asks you out with, “let’s get Brussels sprouts.” And no one nods knowingly when you’re a shambles Sunday morning from Brussels sprouts gas.

Now, it happens, I do, in fact, love Brussels sprouts. It also happens that I do not drink alcohol. And yet, everyone I meet makes the assumption that I do, until told otherwise. Drinker until proven abstinent. This bothers me.

I quit drinking in April 2009, because I didn’t like how entwined my dating and drinking lives had become. I decided the only way to fully render them apart would be to quit drinking completely, until I found myself in a relationship, procured sans-drink, at which point I would re-evaluate.

The bad news is I’m still waiting on that relationship.

I grew up eating my fair share of great Chicago pizza. My family made the drive from St. Paul to Chicago a few times each year to visit all the relatives living there. Laden with spicy Italian sausage and creamy cheese that stretched in long strings as I pulled the slice away from my mouth, I thought Chicago pizza was the best food in the world.

With that in mind, I feel a little silly calling this concoction of mine a pizza. It’s nothing like the Chicago pizza I grew up on. But it is on a flat piece of dough with several ingredients piled on top along with mozzarella cheese.

Arugula on my pizza was only a thought after I’d prepared an Arugula Salad for this week’s newspaper column. I had a small amount of the green ingredients left from the salad — arugula, spinach and tiny fresh green peas. Along with a few other little odds and ends from my refrigerator, I decided to create a pizza.

I’ve just bought a coffee, and now, seated at my table for one, I am pulling my book from my bag, when I notice that the woman at the next table — also alone—is shyly watching me from behind the covers of her open book. We smile and exchange tentative comments about our reading selections.

My book is Margaret Atwood’s Handmaid’s Tale, which I’ll be teaching in another hour. My book is a dystopian study of a postmodern, neo-colonial world, in which the women wear color-coded baggy gowns—kind of like Sarah Silverstein’s Emmy gown, but with even more material. I’m much more interested, however, in my neighbor’s choice: Mirielle Guiliano’s French Women Don't Get Fat Cookbook. She is three-quarters of the way through and tells me that it is riveting and—the most important point—helpful. It is only later—much, much later, after I have endured contemplating what I call the leek-soup-trial—that I will reflect upon the fact that this scene took place in McDonalds.

She was old but sharp and I knew she identified me yards before I even noticed her standing there. With a sweet smile and grey hair, she was the kind of woman just nutty enough to have 3 or 7 cats but sweet enough to make apologies for her behavior. She held her clipboard like it meant the world to her.

“Excuse me sir, do you speak Spanish?” she asked. “Not very well,” I replied, causing her to slow down on her list of pre-anticipated responses. Her pencil fumbled to find a new section, and once she did she began all over again as if I hit a secret reset button.

“Do you like hot dogs?”

In 30-something years I don’t think I’ve ever missed the opportunity for a smirk or off-colored response to that question; with this woman it didn’t seem appropriate. I said “But of course. Why? Are you inviting me over?”