Father's Day + A Time When I Didn't Like Pizza

14 June 2013

It's Father's Day on Sunday. Both my kids have been plotting, planning and preparing over the last week for their daddies special day. They idolise him and approach this day with considerable excitement. My role in their carefully thought out plan is to try and turn the list of ever-so-slightly random and adventurous ideas into reality. 

Then there is my own dad of course. He's actually spending the weekend with my brother and his family, which will be a real treat, given that the distance between them (Isle of Wight - Tynemouth) doesn't allow for too many occasions spent together. I've written about my Dad before on the blog (you can read it here), but today I want to share a little story that came back to me recently.


In 1980, we had a family holiday to America. It was a big thing. It was the first time that my brother or I had been abroad. We have a big extended family in Michigan, so this trip was spent in the company of our American cousins, all of who showed us a great and memorable time. Although only eight at the time, I remember it being an amazing adventure.

Naturally, many of my memories evolve around the food we ate. It was so different to what we ate back home: all the sweets were different and called 'candy', jam was called 'jelly' and as for breakfast cereal - I'd never seen so many varieties! I remember the pizzas too - great big things the size of dustbin lids. 

However, at eight I didn't like pizza. Even now, I can't give a legitimate reason why, I just didn't like it. These pizzas often marked the end of days sightseeing with relatives, but like I say I didn't like pizza. So my dad would go on a wild goose chase for a McDonalds to by me a burger (no gerkins). He wasn't a soft touch and I'm surprised he put up with such fastidious behaviour. On one such occasion, I remember him returning with my paper-wrapped bun rather incensed muttering something about 'almost getting run over trying to cross the busy highway to get to McDonalds'. To top it all, I dare say his pizza was cold when he got back to us all.

I love pizza now and wouldn't step within 100yds of McDonalds. Dad: sorry that I was a fussy-eating eight year old.

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