Ordering Pizza on a Wednesday Isn’t Giving Up

Somewhere along the way, we turned pizza into a weekend event. Friday night? Pizza. Saturday movie night? Pizza. Football game? Definitely pizza. But order one on a random Wednesday afternoon and somebody always seems to ask, “What’s the occasion?”

The occasion is that I’m tired. That’s enough.

I’ve spent enough years thinking every meal had to be homemade to count. Somewhere in my head I convinced myself that a good week meant planning every supper, cooking every meal, and somehow enjoying every minute of it. Then real life showed up, and real life has a funny way of reminding you that there are only so many hours in a day.

Some days I’m happy to cook. I love trying a new recipe or standing in the kitchen while something good simmers on the stove. There is something comforting about chopping vegetables, stirring a sauce, and hearing everyone wander into the kitchen asking what smells so good.

Other days I look at the refrigerator, look at the clock, and think, “Absolutely not.” That doesn’t make me lazy. It makes me honest. I’ve also noticed that some of my favorite pizza memories didn’t happen on a Friday night. One of them happened at the beach.

We had spent the entire day outside. The kind of day where the sun leaves your shoulders warm, your hair is still a little salty, and you’re too relaxed to care what time it is. We could have gone back to the condo and cooked something. The kitchen had everything we needed.

Instead, somebody suggested pizza. A little while later we were sitting around the table in our swimsuits and cover-ups with paper plates, sandy feet, and a cardboard box sitting right in the middle of the table. Nobody complained that it wasn’t fancy. Nobody wished we’d spent an hour cooking.

We laughed. We talked about the day. We argued over the last slice. Someone reached for another breadstick they insisted they weren’t going to eat. That meal wasn’t memorable because of what we ate. It was memorable because nobody was stuck in the kitchen while everyone else was relaxing.

Sometimes that’s worth every penny. The same thing happens at home. There are evenings when Ma has had a long day. Uncle R needs something. The laundry somehow multiplied while nobody was looking. My email is overflowing, there are dishes in the sink, and supper is the last thing I want to think about.

Years ago I probably would have pushed through anyway because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do. Now? I’ll happily pick up the phone. Or open the app. Okay, we only have one pizza place in our small town and they aren’t the best but they deliver and I don’t have to cook. They also charge 25 cents per plate if you don’t want to do dishes but hey who am I to complain.

I’ve discovered that the people sitting around my table rarely remember whether I made homemade biscuits or ordered pizza. They remember whether I actually sat down with them.

That’s the part that matters. There is a strange amount of guilt wrapped up in not cooking.

Maybe it’s because so many of us grew up believing a good homemaker made every meal from scratch. Maybe it’s because social media makes it look like everyone else has perfectly planned dinners every single night.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t live in one of those picture-perfect kitchens where somebody is always pulling a bubbling casserole out of the oven while sunlight streams through spotless windows.

I live in a real house. Sometimes dinner is homemade chicken and rice. Sometimes it’s leftovers. Sometimes it’s cereal. And sometimes a delivery driver saves the day. None of those choices make me any more or less successful. One thing I’ve learned over the years is that exhaustion doesn’t magically disappear because you ignore it.

If you’re already running on empty, forcing yourself to cook a meal you don’t have the energy for isn’t always the noble thing to do. Sometimes the wiser choice is admitting that tonight isn’t the night.

That extra hour matters. Maybe it means sitting on the porch while the sun goes down. Maybe it means playing a game with the grandkids. Maybe it means finally watching that movie you’ve been meaning to see. Maybe it simply means sitting at the table without feeling rushed. Those things have value too.

I also think we underestimate how much children remember the atmosphere around the table instead of the menu. Years from now they probably won’t say, “Remember that frozen pizza Mom ordered on a Wednesday?”

They’ll remember everyone laughing because somebody dropped an olive in their drink. They’ll remember sitting around the box picking their favorite slices. They’ll remember staying at the table long after the food was gone because nobody was in a hurry. Those are the memories that stick.

The older I get, the more I believe that hospitality has very little to do with impressing people. It’s about making people feel comfortable. If ordering pizza means I actually enjoy the evening instead of spending it cleaning pots and pans, that’s a pretty good trade.

If grabbing takeout on the way home means everyone eats together instead of one person cooking while everyone else waits, that’s a win. If ordering pizza at the beach means nobody misses the sunset because they’re standing over a stove, I’m ordering the pizza.

Every single time. So here’s your permission slip, if you needed one. Order the pizza on a Tuesday. Or a Wednesday. Order it because you’re celebrating. Order it because you’re tired. Order it because it’s raining. Order it because you’ve spent all day chasing kids, working, gardening, traveling, or simply being a human being. Order it at the beach.

Order it after a long drive. Order it because the thought of washing another skillet makes you want to pretend you don’t know where the kitchen is. Life doesn’t hand out awards for making every meal from scratch. Sometimes the best thing you can bring to the table is yourself.

And if you happen to show up with a pizza box in your hands instead of a casserole dish, I have a feeling everyone will still be pretty happy to see you.