12. My First Time

My First Time

The title above is mine.  (How else could I get you to read it?) The story that follows belongs to Ellen Laub. I don't usually post stuff written by others, but this one fit the criteria for inclusion: She grew up in East Flatbush sometime in the middle of the last century and she possesses a literary style not unlike that of this blog's host.

Thanks, Ellen.

Pizza

March 5, 2009 |ELLEN LAUB

It's probably best to not mention it.

I had my very first slice of pizza ever at Ellen Feller's birthday party. I was already 11 years old. In sixth grade! I can still remember the crunch of the crust and how the essence of the spices remained at the back of my throat until it slipped behind nasal passages and held its ground long after I swallowed. 

The other girls chattered away about the cute boys in our class and how much homework Mrs. Rosenberg gave on Fridays. I was too busy focusing on that first bite. Dare I take another? The velvety cheese oozed between my teeth and swaddled my tongue and inner jaw like a newborn baby's blanket. And that crust! Maybe I shouldn't mention that crust.

I was surely the only one at Ellen Feller's party who had never before tasted pizza. It seemed like ordinary fare to the rest of them. All that inane chit chat about Gary Godfrey's dimples and Paul Cohen's iridescent blue eyes. Didn't they realize how amazing that pizza was? I didn't want to finish my slice too soon, I wanted to savor it. But if I waited too long, I might not get another. Ilene Rashbaum was chewing and gabbing and chewing and gabbing and had gone for her second slice before I'd had my third bite. Apparently the Rashbaums ate a lot of pizza. But perhaps it's best not to mention that.

At our house it was cooked food. Almost all the time. Mom was always in the kitchen preparing our meals ... koshering a chicken, chopping a salad, brushing potatoes. But once in a rare while, like when my parents had to go to a wedding, we'd get our "not-very-fast food" treat. While she got my baby sisters ready for bed, Mom would send me and my brother on a special mission to Cousins Deli for a pair of kosher hot dogs with sauerkraut and potato knishes cooked on the foil-covered grill. On the four-block walk along Avenue D, me with one hand in my pocket squeezing the precious money bundle, and the other squeezing my precious little brother's hand as we crossed streets, I felt great responsibility.

After checking the deli man's thick-penciled computations on the side of the greasy bag to make sure we didn't pay too much for dinner, Mom would set out our meal on the fleishadic dinner plates along with a healthy salad. After she left, I'd usually throw the uneaten salad in the garbage, but it's probably best to not mention that.

Once in a while as a special treat on a Sunday night we did order in Chinese Food that my dad would pick up from the restaurant. But before he left to go get it, Mom would call Bubbe, talking in hushed tones and Yiddish, to make sure they weren't planning on stopping by. Papa would not have been happy to know we were eating Chinese Food, even though we used paper plates and plastic utensils. Did that make it kosher? Probably not, so it's best not to mention it.

Although thinking about food is a pretty natural state for me, it's funny how my mouth has memorized the joy of a squished kosher hot dog on a soggy bun, secret Chinese food on a plastic fork, and my first bite of pizza. Last night I dreamt that I ate an entire cheese pizza all by myself.

Almost as good as the pizza I ate at Ellen Feller's party. 

But you know it's probably best to not mention that.