Alright, someone asked me to name a pizza topping. Sounds simple, doesn’t it?
Well, let me tell you, it’s not always just about what tastes good. Sometimes, a pizza topping can drag up a whole lot of memories, you know?
For a long time, if you asked me, I’d just shrug. But now? I’ve got one. And there’s a story to it, like most things in my life that seem straightforward on the surface.
The Old Grind and the Friday Ritual
I remember this one job I had. Years ago. It was one of those office gigs that just grinds you down. Staring at a screen, endless paperwork, the usual soul-sucking stuff. The kind of place where you count the minutes until you can leave. And the pay? Barely kept the lights on, if you know what I mean.
But every Friday, there was this one thing: company-ordered pizza. Sounds like a perk, right? A little treat to end the week. Oh, you’d think so. But it turned into this whole production, this weekly drama.
You had all sorts of factions when it came to toppings. It was a real battlefield. We had:
- The die-hard pepperoni folks. No compromise there.
- The ‘give me all the veggies’ group, who’d then argue about which veggies.
- The ‘absolutely no pineapple under any circumstances’ brigade. Very vocal, those ones.
- And then the occasional ‘anchovies are amazing, you’re all missing out’ person, usually ignored.
Honestly, it was exhausting. I just wanted to eat and get on with my day, or what was left of it. So, I’d always try to be the easy one. “Anything’s fine,” I’d say, or “Just plain cheese is good.” Trying to stay out of the crossfire.
The Topping That Wasn’t There
One time, the office manager, this guy who thought he was a real big shot, decided he was taking charge of the order. He made a big show of it, “I’ll get something everyone will love!” he boomed. He prided himself on being ‘in touch’ with the team. What a joke.
So, the pizzas arrive. And he’s got this grand spread. All sorts of fancy combinations. He’s beaming, expecting applause or something. And I’m looking, just looking for something simple, something I could actually eat without a fuss. I’d quietly mentioned to him earlier, “Hey, if there’s a mushroom option, that’d be great.” Just a polite little request, you know?
Guess what? Not a single mushroom in sight. Not on any of the pizzas. When I sort of hesitantly asked, trying not to make a big deal, he just waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, mushrooms! Nobody really goes for mushrooms, do they? A bit bland.” Bland! He called them bland while proudly presenting a pizza with god-knows-what weird fermented fish on it, or something equally bizarre that only he liked.
It wasn’t about the mushrooms, not really. It was the way he just brushed off a small, simple thing. Made you feel like you didn’t matter, your preference was too ‘bland’ to even consider. In that whole office, with all its petty politics and soul-crushing routine, that stupid mushroom thing just stuck with me. It was like a tiny symbol of everything else that was wrong there.
I didn’t stay at that job much longer after that, for a whole bunch of reasons. But you know what’s funny?
Ever since then, I’ve made it a point to order mushrooms on my pizza. Every single time. Sometimes, extra mushrooms. It’s like my own little private joke, my little nod to that moment. It’s not about being ‘bland’; it’s about choosing what I like, no matter how simple it is.
So, yeah. Name a pizza topping? For me, it’s mushrooms. Not because they’re the most exciting, or the most popular. But because they remind me of something. They remind me to not be dismissive of the simple things, and to always get what I want on my damn pizza.
