Pizza Crime
Tell me why when I was younger I lacked the comprehension between pizza sauce and Nigerian red stew. I told my mom I wanted to make a pizza; she had the chef prepare the dough for me in preparation for the cook-a-thon I was venturing on the following day. The next day finally came and they just happened to be making red stew for rice. I had this bright idea that all red sauces were the same or closely related. I finalized it was appropriate for me to use stew to make a pizza because the chef was taking too long to make the pizza sauce, while he prepared the other dishes for the household.
The dough was stretched out, and all the ingredients were lined up in tiny white bowls, waiting to be sprinkled by my chunky, meaty hands. “Wait... while we bring the sauce for the pizza,” my chef asserted. “No, you don't have to make it anymore, just use the stew. I want the pizza to be ready soon,” I complained back. “Eh, how can you do that? Stew is not for pizza,” he marveled in distress. “It doesn't matter, it's all the same, it's a red sauce,” I said preposterously. “Don’t touch the pizza, I'll be right back!” He left in shock. I then proceeded to argue back and forth with everyone who came into the kitchen and gave my reasons for being impatient. I quickly decided that the adults didn't know what they were talking about; sauce is sauce. I wanted the pizza now, I wanted to show it off before everyone wasn’t hungry anymore.
Firstly, the pizza sauce should have been ready in the first place, so to conclude my reasoning, the chef was irresponsible. While they stepped out for a bit, I proceeded to force one of the chef's aides to help me pour stew on the dough. She was an accomplice to my crime! She was in danger because when the chef got back, she would have to answer for what she had done. I chose her because she mainly helped cook Nigerian dishes and didn’t know too much about pizza. Most importantly, she had missed a lot of the conversation that led up to her pouring the sauce for me.
“Wow… what have you done,” screams of terror came from the chef. But I was pleased because things were finally moving along; the chef’s slow nature in preparing my pizza was off-putting. I was finally able to say I made a pizza and was ready to put it in the oven. With strong grief, they added the rest of the ingredients, and the pizza went in the oven and cooked. Ding! The sound of joy came from the oven, and I rushed back to the kitchen in excitement. “My pizza is ready, everyone come and taste,” I announced as I blew on it to cool down. After a couple of minutes, everyone gathered around the table to get a hot slice of pizza. Before they ate, they showered me with compliments. The adults praised me so highly and were all amazed at my newfound interest in cooking. I heard it all. “Well done” and “You're a big girl now.”
It only took about five seconds before everyone's face started turning sour as they munched on the pizza, and the compliments slowly faded too. They all tried to fake it, including my mom; nobody could look me in the eye and tell me I was wrong and that what I had indeed made was not pizza. My aunt said, “It doesn't taste bad, but it is certainly not pizza.” I was shocked. Why would she say such a thing? It’s not like she was putting in work like me. Who was she to judge? They all started putting their slices down and they began saying rude things like “Nice try.” I was beyond embarrassed and upset, but the truth was it was stew, cheese, and meat on flatbread. I finally had a taste of this marvelous dish I had wasted the whole day making, and I was disappointed. I was appalled at my chef for allowing me to do such a thing. That was not pizza.
Proverbs 15:18: "Hot tempers cause arguments, but patience brings peace"
Pearl