You Ruined Me
Our pizza finally arrived at the restaurant’s table, a short, squat number whittled by craftsman from freshly rescued wood. We were sitting just across the kitchen in our favorite bricked-out, tricked-out neighborhood pizza place, a hip joint that serves stuff like blistered shishito peppers with aioli (aka: garlic mayo) for an appetizer and tops pies with ramps and brussel sprouts and hen of the woods (it’s a mushroom). We’d chosen our standby spicy soppressata with drizzled honey (burns like heaven) and the one with frizzled kale, burnt lemon and grana padano (sounds fancy, tastes like parm).
“You know you’ve ruined me, right?” my husband says while lifting a hot slice of gourmet pizza to his lips.
“How’s that now? I’ve ruined you?” I’d always heard you couldn’t change a man, but apparently I’d done the impossible. Perhaps this pizza was God’s reward.
“Yeah, you’ve ruined me. I’m a huge snob now because of you. Before you I didn’t care about food and now look at me. You think I can go back to Domino’s after stuff like this?”
When I met Vinny 15 years ago his skinny ass was barely surviving on a diet of boiled hot dogs and Entenman’s crumb cakes. He used to bring a dozen donuts to the office, plop them on his desk in the morning and nibble his way through the pink box all afternoon. He did this once a week, and called it “Donut Day”. He still eats a shit-ton of donuts, but now they’re from places where they cost $4 each and come in flavors like Hibiscus, Lemon-Poppy and Dulce de Leche with a smattering of sea salt.
“A couple people at work were talking about their favorite sandwiches and I totally laid into a guy who said he loved Subway,” he said. “I was like, ‘Are you fucking kidding me? I see that “bread” baking but that’s not bread! It smells like chemicals and crumbles when you touch it! Ugh, and those meats that have been sitting out all day? You call that a sandwich?!’
“You ruined me. I’m a snob.”
I’d always wondered if he cared about the efforts I made through the years to provide him with sustenance that not only covered his basic nutritional needs but also titillated his palate in a unique and surprising way. I sometimes worried I’d embarrassed him by sending him to work with little tubs filled with quinoa and herbed pestos or kale salads topped with toasted nuts and tiny currants. Turns out, I had broadened his horizons.
I felt kind of bad that his personal brand of snobbery hadn’t rubbed off on me at all. I still couldn’t tell the difference between digital and film and I continued to watch romantic comedies he’d pass off as pure drivel. Still, I considered it a personal victory and a testament to our relationship that I’d made it through The Tree of Life without falling asleep. That was his influence, for sure. I didn’t understand half that existential shit, but maybe I’ll give it another crack.
Dessert came and we tucked two shiny spoons into three perfect mounds of rich gelato– chocolate-chocolate chip, fresh strawberry and for a little dose of food snobbery– an extra creamy ricotta.
“Which one’s your favorite?” I asked with a wink.
“Well, what do you think, Jenn? The ricotta. God damn, that’s good.”