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By Jerry Zezima

When the moon hits the sky like a big pizza pie, that’s a-boring.

And that’s why my wife, Sue, desperate for a diversion during the quarantine, asked me to help her make pizza.

“I’m bored out of my mind,” she explained, apparently not bothered by the fact that her husband, who has been driving her crazy while she’s been cooped up in the house all these weeks, has been out of his mind for the entire 42 years of our marriage.

Sue has made pizza before, and it’s always been delicious, but this was the first time she had asked me for a hand.

“How about two hands?” I offered.

Sue shook her head and said, “I have a feeling this is going to be a mistake.”

She had already taken out five pita breads that would substitute for pizza dough.

“I guess I can’t twirl them in the air like they do in pizzerias,” I said.

“Not unless you want to hit the ceiling fan,” replied Sue, pointing out that the fan was on and the bread would go flying across the kitchen and possibly hit me in the eye like a big pizza pie.

“That would be amore,” I said, snuggling up to Sue.

“Keep your mind on your work,” she ordered.

The work involved making five pies: tomato and basil; red and green peppers, onions, black olives and tomatoes; sausage, peppers and onions; sausage, peppers, onions and mushrooms; and sausage and mushrooms.

“I ran out of meatballs,” said Sue, who usually makes my favorite, meatballs and spinach.

“That’s Popeye’s favorite, too,” I pointed out.

Since Sue couldn’t roll her dough, she rolled her eyes.

“Make yourself useful,” she told me.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked, afraid she would answer, “Get lost.”

She didn’t. Instead, she said, “Slice the olives.”

They were small and the knife was large, but I managed to succeed without slicing off a finger.

“That would be quite a topping, wouldn’t it?” I remarked.

Sue ignored it and said, “Now slice the tomatoes.”

I did, after which I sliced the mushrooms and some of the peppers and onions, the last of which, I said, “can make a grown man cry.”

Sue looked like she was about to burst into tears when I told her I would sprinkle the ingredients, which I had helped her brown in a pan on the stove, over the pita breads.

“I asked you to help, not take over,” Sue said as I also used a tablespoon to spread canned pizza sauce on the breads, which I then topped with, of course, the toppings.

“Now sprinkle on the cheese,” Sue said, handing me a bag of shredded Romano, a fistful of which I shoved, along with a few toppings, into my mouth.

“Stop eating the ingredients!” she commanded.

Finally, the five pizzas were ready to be put into the oven.

“They look good,” I said.

When they came out 20 minutes later, they tasted good.

“Yum!” I exclaimed as I stuffed my face with a slice of the pie with sausage, peppers and onions.

“It came out pretty well,” Sue said, adding: “These days I have nothing else to do but cook. I’m bored. I don’t know how I am going to retire.”

I’ve been retired for months; Sue, a teacher’s assistant, has been working remotely while school has been closed due to the pandemic.

“Maybe,” I suggested, “we can open our own pizza joint, with curbside service. I can see it now: Jerry and Sue’s.”

“Sue and Jerry’s,” Sue said. “And you can’t take over my creations.”

“All right,” I said as I took another bite. “But we do make a good pizza team. Any way you slice it.”

— Jerry Zezima

Jerry Zezima writes a humor column for Hearst Connecticut Media Group, which includes his hometown paper, the Stamford Advocate. His column is distributed by Tribune News Service of Chicago and has run in newspapers nationwide and abroad. He is also the author of four books, Leave It to Boomer, The Empty Nest Chronicles, Grandfather Knows Best and Nini and Poppie’s Excellent Adventures, all of which are “crimes against literature.” He has won seven awards from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists for his humorous writing.