海角大神

Pizza!

There have been many paeans to a dish that garners almost universal enthusiasm, whether it鈥檚 as a respite from Friday night cooking, an affordable meal to eat on the fly, or a ready way to grease the skids of a dreaded business meeting.聽

For me, I was unaware of pizza鈥檚 therapeutic value until I had kids.聽

When my boys were still growing, most situations were easily addressed: If you don鈥檛 pick up your room, you can鈥檛 go out to play. But there were also moments when the solution wasn鈥檛 evident to me, and as a single parent, there was no other adult in the house to consult.聽

I adopted my older son, Alyosha, in Russia when he was 7. We had a good start. But one day, when he was 8, something 鈥� I have long since forgotten what 鈥� didn鈥檛 go his way. He was still getting English under his belt, and, having not prevailed in the matter, he announced, 鈥淚 go back Russia.鈥�

I looked on as he walked out the door. Then I caught up and walked alongside him as he made his way down the street.聽

鈥淚t鈥檚 far,鈥� I told him.

Staring straight ahead, he replied, 鈥淚 don鈥檛 care. I walk.鈥�

We continued on, and I added, 鈥淭here鈥檚 an ocean between here and Russia.鈥�

Alyosha didn鈥檛 miss a beat. His response: 鈥淚 take boat.鈥�

I finally aimed for the heart: 鈥淚鈥檒l miss you.鈥�

Alyosha plodded on but replied, 鈥淚 miss you too.鈥�

Finally, after a long stretch, I suggested, 鈥淗ow about pizza?鈥�

His response: 鈥淥K.鈥�

And that was that. He never made it to Russia.

When my second son came along, adopted from a Ukrainian orphanage at the age of 5, the waters of his life with me were roiled in his sixth year, when he became enamored with a 5-year-old girl in a neighbor鈥檚 family. One cold, dark evening, he took to his heels, intent on visiting Diana against my wishes. I had quite a time locating him, but I eventually found him standing on a traffic island, tears coursing down his cheeks because he couldn鈥檛 figure out how to navigate the crossing. I threw a jacket around him and gathered him into my arms.聽

鈥淗ow about pizza?鈥� He wiped his tears on his sleeve and sniffed, 鈥淥K.鈥澛�

A short while later the ardor of his love was being attenuated by the sweet taste of pepperoni nestled within a double-cheese crust.

Both of these adventures suggested the enduring value of what I call 鈥渢he pizza cure.鈥� Its beauty lies in its simplicity. I have observed that, confronted with a variety of exotic toppings 鈥� I recently noted kale, chard, and pineapple pizza with caramelized onions 鈥� most people will still choose a slice of plain cheese pizza. It is time-tested, familiar, unpretentious. And it has proved to be a balm for an assortment of maladies, beyond rescuing children from the perils of a trek to Russia or the devastation of unrequited love. By way of example, one of my students recently confided a minor personal crisis to me. Nothing I said could pull him out of his slough of despondency, and so I acted. I took him to a local pizza joint and watched as he tucked into a magazine-size slice of double cheese, double crust. Moments later the clouds had parted and the light of alleviation shone through. The world once again seemed manageable.

To appropriate a well-worked adage, a slice of pizza is sometimes worth a thousand words of consolation.