My Lunch with Joe

On Tuesdays, I have lunch with my grandfather. He's 92, unless he's 93. We used to go out to restaurants, but he decided that thay charge too much, and the food isn't good, and the service is lousy. He's a little cranky - did I mention he's in his nineties?

He made Grandpa's Signature Pizza today. It's the world's thinnest crust slathered in Grandpa's Meat Trifecta Sauce, with cheese, olives, and fancy-pants gourmet pepperoni. The sauce doubles as his spaghetti sauce; it's basically a few tomatoes and some mushrooms keeping company with vast amounts of pork, beef, and veal. (Yes, I'm aware that veal is baby beef, making it really more of a meat bifecta. Moo to you, too.) The only liquid part of the sauce is the grease from all that meat; the rest is pretty chunky. Not a veggie fan, my grandpa.

Those of you who know me can imagine my sheer horror at this culinary delight. Meat, meat, meat, and suspicious log-shaped meat. I think the mushrooms are tinned, too.

And yet, somehow, I can't get enough of this stuff. I look forward to it every fall. This, my friends, is some good pizza. Gooooooood. Piiiiizzaaaaaaaa. Nope, I don't get it either. I think it must be that pinch of crack he adds to the sauce.

He's so proud of himself when we have something besides sandwiches. It's really cute, but don't you dare tell him I said so. After pizza (and coffee, always coffee) we had the last two cookies from the recent batch of Super Chewy-Gooey Chocolate Chip-Raisin Nummies.

We talked about my job, what Adam's been doing, the deplorable things Bush has managed since last week, and his irritation at being surrounded by old people. Pretty much our normal topics. Then he wrapped up the rest of the pizza and a slice of pie for Matt. He seems to be afraid I'm not feeding the boy. I suppose it's something to do with hernia-surgery-recoverers' solidarity.

Coolest. Grandpa. Ever.