Thursday was exhausting; I was on campus from 8 a.m. to 7 p.m., and Friday was almost as bad. So when I got home, I just ordered pizza to be delivered. My favorite pizzeria here doesn’t do much delivery service, so they send the pizza in Storm Lake’s only taxi, which I always find amusing.
Anyway, they had a two-fer deal, so I ordered two larges. After eating my dinner and putting the rest of that pizza in the fridge for weekend noshing, I got out some quart freezer bags and bagged up 2 -3 slice portions of the extra pizza to freeze. The dogs were both sitting right there watching this with anxious eyes (they’d both already had a couple of bites). I said to them,* “By freezing this now, we can enjoy it another time.” And then it hit me: freezing pizza slices for me and the dogs is the closest I’m ever going to come to that uber-domestic activity, canning produce or jam for my loving family.
Not that I particularly want to can, or want any creature living with me that doesn’t eat pet food and like it, but still. I just recognized that another domestic marker and part of my own childhood** had passed me by.
Oh well. The dogs probably wouldn’t like jam, anyway.
*Yes, I talk to the animals. A lot. I figure that as long as they’re not talking back, I’m not crazy, just endearingly eccentric.
**My mother made and canned the BEST jams and jellies. Both her raspberry jam and pie-cherry jam (from our own garden) should be in the freaking Smithsonian, except if there were any jars left, my siblings and I would fight over them. Viciously.