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Panic Pizza Recipe
Start your day off well. Make coffee, eat leftovers. Begin to collapse a little under the weight of the world we now live in. Listen to the Cuomo briefing and wrestle with the knowledge that “normal” may never return, but that everything will have to change. Start eating candy. Begin with a Snickers bar, because nuts have protein (lie to yourself, it’s ok). Know that we will be out of our homes soon, but “outside” won’t be the same for a long while.
Move on to gummy bears. Convince yourself that “sweetened with fruit juice” makes them a reasonable food substitute. Keep binge-watching. Stop getting up off the couch. Form your body into the couch’s second skin. Pretend that, were anyone to actually see you, like in person, you would be indistinguishable from the couch. You are the couch now. Eat Reese’s pieces.
You want pizza but worry about the delivery person. Wonder if it is cruel to make them go out and put themselves at risk or is it better to spend the money and tip them well? I mean, we are supposed to support local and also protect people from exposure. But also, like, who is cooking the pizza? How much do they care? What if they sneeze on it? What if your desire to wear a weighted blanket made of pizza will, inevitably, lead to your death? After you've become infected with the pizza virus, how many people will you accidentally kill because you checked your mail? or did laundry? (just kidding, you aren’t going to do any laundry. You only wear 2 pairs of pants and 5 shirts now) or went to the grocery store to buy more candy or potatoes or carrots or beans or whatever you accidentally over-purchase, over and over, in your panic/comfort shopping?
Consult with three different people via text message who all agree that you can order pizza and that it, most likely, will not kill everyone that you know and love. Nibble on some Easter candy. Drink water (just kidding, but really you should). Check the pizza website. Of the five closest locations, only one is still delivering. Wonder if they are busy all the time or waiting for something, anything, to do to fill the time. Picture them all wearing gloves and facemasks in a sterile, completely disinfected, pizza operating room.
Place your pizza order, requesting a “light bake”, unsure why a medium pizza and drink just cost you $40. Assume it’s because you tipped well and the rest is hazard pay. Refuse to believe that people would capitalize on this moment. Assume you are keeping someone’s lights on, because who would take advantage of people now, when we are in this state? Who would be able to sleep at night knowing that they were profiting off the panic and fear of millions of people?
Stop asking questions. You are a couch. Couches do not ask questions. Couches stare out the window for over an hour, worried about the pizza person, but also a little scared that someone will claim to be you and take your pizza from you. Preheat the oven to 450.
From the window, orchestrate the food drop and say “stay safe” instead of “goodbye” because that’s the new normal. Completely gloved, escort the pizza to the kitchen and into the incredibly hot oven. Remove the possibly or probably definitely infected cardboard box and throw it out. Watch as you finish baking the pizza while simultaneously murdering any pizza virus that thought to end you. Triumphant, return to being a couch.
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