At the sight of Willow’s face as she surveyed the array of pies on the marble counter, I asked, “Have you had pizza before?” “Yes,” she said, quickly, never taking her eyes off that counter. “Three times. At both cross-country end-of-season dinners and once in Italy, but that one had potatoes on it and no sauce. The first two times, I only ate the plain cheese pieces, but I’m wondering, if maybe, tonight, well . . .” She swallowed hard. “We’ll take a large half sausage, half pepperoni,” I told the man behind the counter. I turned to Willow. “Do you want some fries? They have really good fries.” She pressed her palms together. “Well, I’m not really allowed to eat them. With good reason of course.” Of course. It had driven me crazy as a kid, how Wilson would dig into a plate of bangers and mash or pork pie without a second thought but called “pure poison” all foods he considered middle-class American. The only thing he reviled more than french fries was tuna casserole.
