I must admit, I'm a bit of an odd duck. There are countless reasons for this, but one of the most compelling would be my food choices when ill.
I first recall this manifesting when I was five years old. It was October 31, 1986 when a group of hyper grade sixes bowled over this poor little kindergardener. This fall resulted in a concussion and I was soon whisked away by ambulance. Nausea overwhelmed me and I could not keep anything down. Once it subsided a bit, I was asked if I wanted lunch. Curious, I looked at the menu and spotted pizza. "May I have that?" I inquired of the nurse. Askance, she informed me that soup would be a wiser choice. So soup was brought and I dutifully ate it, but of course it didn't stay down. "Might I have some pizza now?" I pressed again. Perhaps she shrugged or rolled her eyes or maybe I cried, I don't know, but pizza was brought. I ate it. It stayed down. This was the beginning of my love affair with pizza.
Yesterday I felt quite ill all day long. I barely ate anything, perhaps a nibble here or there. This morning I felt much better, but still not quite hardy enough to brave the leftover curry in my fridge. Being a parent requires much more caloric energy than I had ingested, so I was began to feel rather faint. With some desperation, I called my mother and requested that she come visit, preferably bearing pizza and applesauce(a certain little one's bottom keeps exploding*). She obliged. I ate pizza and felt much better. Popeye had spinach, I have pizza.
I have to say that my parents are really rather sensible so I'm not sure how I acquired my strange relationship with pizza nor how they have put up with it all these years. But I must say that I'm quite grateful for their enabling of it. Thank you, Mom! (and Dad too!)
*The little one turned his nose up at the applesauce, devoured at least two slices of pizza and has subsequently stopped exploding. Huh. He's not anything like his mother, now is he?