I made pizza tonight. With pasta. On top. As in my pizza was topped with pasta. And not just any pasta—that would be boring. I put Thai curry noodles on top, all spicy and gooey and great. I also chopped up a jalapeño and pulled it all together with a scattering of cheddar cheese on top. That makes me all original and adventurous, right? And maybe just a tad disgusting.
Sometimes I think I’m pregnant.
But it was pretty good. The pizza itself was a thin crust chicken alfredo one, and then my kung pao noodles. Please note that this entire experiment was done in secret.
Like I need my roommates to judge me.
I casually cooked the noodles first, nodding and laughing nervously as they assured me it smelled good. Then I pulled out the pizza, moving my workspace to the smallest corner which I could then stand in front of, keeping curious eyes away. I hastily unwrapped the pizza, dubiously dumping the noodles on top. I ate a few to keep up appearances. Finally, I threw it in the oven, shutting the door quickly and pretending nothing was going on. I guarded that oven like it was my life. I didn’t want anyone sneaking a peek. When it was time, I pulled it out and quickly cut it, not willing to let it cool. Because then it would be there for everyone to see. So I sliced it, stored half of it, and then carried the rest to my bedroom where I ate in silent shame. Still, it was good. Unnatural, and with some contradictory flavors, but good. And rather spicy.
I guess my fears of being found out as a pasta-pizza eater are gone.
After all, here I am, bearing my perhaps-disturbing confession to the entire world. Now I will assuredly be judged.
In my opinion, you are all just jealous.