Saturday nights can be tough when you’re at opposite ends of the pizza spectrum

For some people, politics is taboo when it comes to polite conversation. For others, it’s religion. For others, it’s money.

For us, it’s pizza.

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When the husband and I talk pizza, it never ends well. He likes his place. I like mine.

“So,” he will say, often on a Saturday night. “Pizza tonight? From the usual spot? Italian thin crust? Extra crispy?”

I will give him the glare. It will be the glare commonly observed when people are at the opposite sides of the political spectrum — or the pizza spectrum.

“We’ve had this conversation before,” I will point out icily. “Your usual spot is not my usual spot.”

“What?” the husband will say, completely on cue. “You love the usual spot!”

Where pizza is concerned, the husband and I are at, well, odds. I think his favourite pizza is like cardboard. He thinks it’s perfect.

I think my favourite pizza is out of this world. He thinks that’s where it belongs.

Still. This has done nothing to convince the husband that I need to be convinced. His is ideal. I don’t agree.

And so, before abandoning pizza altogether, we looked at another option.

We tried to make our own. We bought a stone. We bought a peel. We bought a rack and a recipe book for homemade pies.

“This is fun!” the husband said. “This will be great!”

“I agree,” I said, thrilled that we were not stepping on the husband’s side of the pizza tracks.

“What shall we put on it?” asked the husband. “Pepperoni? Ham? Italian sausage? Bacon?”

This is what you might also call an “issue” when it comes to our pizza challenges. The husband likes meat, and pretty much nothing else. I prefer different toppings, none of which belongs to the meat family. And so, we went with the half-and-half thing, and popped the za in the oven. It emerged tasting, well, OK at best.

“It’s dough-y,” I observed.

“It’s soggy,” said the husband.

We fed the pizza to the compost, and put the peel in a drawer, where it was rarely heard from again.

As I say, pizza’s a tricky subject — in our house at least. Next time the husband brings it up, I’m going to say we get Chinese.

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