My little brother had his wisdom teeth removed in the fall of 1998, I was a senior in high school. When he emerged from the anesthetic haze and came to under the watchful eyes of my mother and nurses, he instantly began shouting a very specific demand. 

“PIZZA!  PIZZAAAAAA!! I WANT PIZZAAAAAA!”  

There may have been F-bombs incorporated as well, as they are always sprinkled in when this family treasure is retold. The story must have been repeated last Tuesday evening during my delicious last meal at Barbone in the East Village (more about that later), because on Wednesday afternoon as I sifted through the clouds of anesthesia  following knee surgery, I allegedly screamed “PIZZAAA!”.  This leads me to believe that I had subconsciously planned a joke. The underbelly of my concious  made a precise effort to make fun of my brother by recreating his story, as if demonstrating my ability to make fun of someone would trick the nurses and my mother into believing that I was “okay”. (Please note that I have no memory of this joke. File under Black Out Joke)  

The past week has been a total haze due to a barrage of pain killers, the lazy schedule of recovery, and the luxury of having my mother in town to take care of me. I underestimated the pain, overestimated my appetite, and imagined the perfect adult-child trap: an all-access pass to my Mom. Unfortunately, instead of taking advantage of my power and requesting a smorgasbord of childhood favorites, I wasted my golden opportunity by sleeping the days away in a narcotics-induced slumber. 

I would like to share a little something my mom whipped up, despite the fact that she loathed cooking in a room built for a midget Continue Reading