By: Daniel
Returning from spring break is always difficult. I’d forgotten how difficult with the whole not having a spring break thing last year. And maybe this year was more difficult than most because of the endemic phase we’ve recently entered into. I digress.
I guess what I’m trying to say is April slapped me in the face (an Oscars joke, if you will).
Overheard in Dixon: “I won’t die on that hill, but I’ll fight on it.”
Hearing this has made me question myself. What hills would I die on? And which would I simply fight on?
Personally, pineapple on pizza is a hill I won’t die on, but I’d gladly be wounded for the cause. It may sound silly, but the added acidity to the sweet and tangy red sauce just does something to my bones. Of course, you need that Canadian bacon to even out the sweetness with a little salt. Being the bread snob that I am, a good crust doesn’t hurt either.
But what would I die for?
Surely not hotdogs as sandwiches, or squirrel’s rights or Planned Parenthood. Not Birkenstocks in winter or the war in Ukraine. I guess I would die on the pineapple on pizza hill. Well, reader, you heard it here first. Pineapple on pizza is the only way to eat pizza.
DISCLAIMER All persons and events in this column—even those based on real people—are entirely fictional. Any overheard names have been changed for the sake of humor. Any resemblance to other stories, people, plants, animals, places or events is purely coincidental.
