My freshman year of college had reached an end. Thus, my parent’s came to pick me up, we packed the car and got settled in for the 8 hour car ride home.
Fifteen minutes into the drive we decided to stop for lunch at a restaurant my dad claims makes “the best grilled pizza in Rhode Island.” (Which a) isn’t saying much because Rhode Island is so small that it shouldn’t qualify as a state, and b) is questionable because who would have told him that? and why?)
Doubts about quality aside, pizza is pizza, so we happily headed off to this restaurant to enjoy a final lunch in Providence before I said good-bye for the summer. We ordered a grilled pizza of course, and my mother asked for half of it — half — to be mushroom and spinach pizza. Potentially the worst combination of two gross things on an inherently delicious thing.
Yet I sucked it up for the sake of the reunion and had a corner piece of the mushroom pizza. I was unsurprised to discover that it is disgusting. It was so gross that my mom didn’t even enjoy it. So we were left with an uneaten half of a gross pizza that the waitress kindly offered to wrap for us so we could “munch on it in the car.”
7.75 hours later the mushroom smell followed us back into our home and stayed there for the rest of our lives.
