As a bachelor, I had two things in my freezer: Swanson Hungry Man TV Dinners and Tombstone pizzas. Since I regularly went out on Tuesday evenings to my friend's pizza restaurant down at the mall, I had to stagger the days on which I baked those Tombstones. Thursdays. Saturdays, or sometimes Sundays. That meant I was alternating pizza nights. This seemed to me like a prudent diet restriction.
Except I used to eat an entire pepperoni for dinner. In those days, I only cut them into four slices. It seemed to expedite their inhalation. When I got married and settled down, I went through a vetting process with my wife regarding our tastes in frozen pizza. It was pretty clear that there would be no Swanson's in our home, since the next best thing was no longer necessary when I had home cooking. Tombstone won out over a variety of other competitors. It was consistent, and that was important as we started our lives together. It did mean, however, that I was giving up a quarter of my pizza to my wife. That's when I started cutting eight slices. Somehow, getting six slices made up for not eating all four. It was a fractions trick that made me content to share.
When our son was born, I managed to cling to my six of eight ratio, but I was giving up the sausage from my pieces to my newly minted carnivore. That didn't last long. Soon enough, I was down to four slices, with two apiece going to my wife and child. Before the onset of teenagedom, I had given another to my son: three, three and two. The thought of cutting into still smaller slices occurred to me, but even I wasn't fooled by this notion.
These days, the balance of power has been somewhat restored. My son and I share a Tombstone on nights when my wife will not be home for dinner. I can still feel him eying my side of the pie as we work to clear the cardboard circle. "You want that last one?" On principle alone.
Sometimes, when the rest of the family has gone in whatever direction they choose and I am left alone with a freezer that has Tombstone pizza in it, I will slide one in the oven just for me. What do I want on my Tombstone? One word: Mine.