There’s a new pizza place in Spring Mills. They named it Pizza Heaven. I’m sure they were trying to conjure images of the best pizza that could possibly be. My mind, being the associative menace that it is, reflected on that name. I mean, where do we go when we die (if you follow traditional religious belief)? Heaven, of course! Naturally it follows that pizza heaven is where dead pizzas go. Remember all those dead pizzas from your single days? They laid around your house or apartment or car until they could have earned you an “A” in microbiology. Now perhaps when they get to heaven, those pizza bones are “made new,” but I didn’t get there. My understanding of a pizza heaven was more like a pizza graveyard.
Much to my surprise, that evening I found myself sandwiched between my granddaughters, 6&9 years old, headed for… Pizza Heaven. I explained this all to them, there in the back seat. The six year old is kind of fussy. Not maybe a neat freak, but she did warn Judy that “Um Grammy? You might not want to eat that. It’s moldy.” When Judy was fixing to have some blue cheese & crackers. It was plain that the idea of having dinner at this repository for dead pizzas made her uncomfortable. I provided her with an alternative. After a pensive moment, I confided “well. You really wouldn’t like the live ones. They scream when you bite them.”