That's OK, I suppose. We have enough to deal with in our lives; it's difficult to comprehend and cope with such depressing topics that seem so beyond the ability of one person to impact upon.
There is one pressing social topic, however, that, when it is brought up on social media, it is guaranteed to set off a firestorm of debate: should pineapple ever be placed on pizza? This is one debate that never goes uncommented upon.
I, of course, count myself among those who relishes pineapple on my pizza, especially when paired with Canadian bacon or ham. I have lived in Italy and know that it is an offense to all Italians and many others who live throughout the world. Still, I cannot resist the culinary goodness that comes from pairing pineapple with tomato sauce, mozzarella, and Canadian bacon, upon a platform of crispy crust. The howls of protest and indignation and, sometimes even, condemnation I have received for my pineapple love are really quite surprising in their intensity. But it does not matter. I do not cast moral judgment upon those who cover their pizzas with wretched anchovies or the Japanese for smothering their pizzas with tuna, mayonnaise, and corn. And I will continue to eat my pizzas with pineapple, as it harms no one and provides me with great pleasure.
Recently, I committed my joyful offense at Mario's the trendy Italian restaurant in Bishkek. They have a wonderful wood furnace in which they bake their handcrafted pizzas. And as certain as the sun rises I ordered a ham and pineapple pizza, unashamed by my unorthodox choice. I could feel the judgment of the American couple seated near me as they gazed upon what I ordered, the scowls I could detect out of the corner of my eye was evidence of that. "You eat pineapple on your pizza?" the woman asked me, from her table, with a haughty tone of superiority. "No," I replied. "I just order it to start unwanted conversations with annoying people like you."
Strangely, for some reason, my comment ended the conversation. I don't know why. Despite the awkward silence that ensued, oh how I enjoyed the culinary delight of pineapple on my taste buds, combined with all the goodness of that which makes a perfect pizza.
Pineapple on pizza. It is a metaphor. I consider all the many aspects of life we disapprove of in others. Some of us detest the music of younger generations. Others don't like the clothing or language or mannerisms of various groups they encounter. We are offended when people don't place ice in our beverages, or when they do. Or if someone doesn't believe in God. Or hates Manchester United. Or everything. Most of these discomforts and disapprovals are so trivial, and matter so little, and advance nothing in the world, and don't help us achieve understanding with anyone. OK, so most of these items I have listed are more significant than pineapple on pizza. Yet, it is the same concept: so many of our disapprovals and cultural displeasures aren't cosmically important, but we hold them anyway, even if they divide us. No one is asking anyone else to eat pineapple on their pizza; instead, why don't we all just appreciate the diversity of toppings that we find in this diverse world?
When I had finished my pizza and the wait person had taken my plate away, the remainder of the restaurant breathed a sigh of relief that my offending order had been removed. My taste buds remained content, yet I was saddened when I realized that I lived on a planet where pineapple on a pizza created such trouble and where the Rohingya people go to bed tonight in as desperate misery as they did the night before.
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