Pizzas and ice creams as prizes

Just like some aromas, the taste of certain foods transports me to specific times and moments. For example, Arabic food reminds me of my time as a master's student because near the university where I studied, there was a very famous restaurant that served the best Arabic food in Maturín. I shared many meals there celebrating friendships, academic achievements, and even the end of a semester. Then there are hallacas, which remind me of December, family gatherings, Christmas dinner, and gifts. You could say that the smell of hallacas is part of the emotional memory of Venezuelans and is linked to Christmas.

But if there's one meal I always remember, it's when my father, at the end of every school year, would take us out for pizza and ice cream. For me, pizza isn't just a delicious food I enjoy eating; it's also a reminder of my father, now deceased, and a time when studying was my only obligation.

I don't remember when that family tradition began, but I do remember that starting in January, Dad would begin reminding us that the only condition for getting to go out for pizza and ice cream was to do well at the end of the school year.

"You know: if you do badly, you won't get pizza or ice cream," Dad would say in a serious and threatening tone, and my sisters and I would start studying more, reviewing more, and playing less.

If any of us had failed a subject, the rest of us felt morally obligated to help so that no one would miss out on what we believed was the lottery's grand prize, the reward for our effort: savoring a slice of pizza and an ice cream.

Eating out wasn't one of the luxuries we could afford. At home, we ate the same old things: rice, soup, pasta, chicken, meat. The only time we could eat something different, pizza, was in August when we'd been promoted to the next grade. Of course, we also ate ice cream from time to time—popsicles and fruit-flavored ice cream sold by a vendor who passed by my house—but those cone-shaped ice creams, scoops of vanilla ice cream sprinkled with almonds, we only ever tasted at that Bariloche ice cream shop, which doesn't exist anymore.

When we arrived at the pizzeria, excited, we sat around the table. My parents would take the opportunity to talk about the importance of our studies and how this outing was the reward for our hard work. After the pizzas arrived, we ate in silence, each of us savoring that deliciousness that we wouldn't taste again until the following year. That's why, every time I eat pizza, I remember my childhood, but also my dad, because the reward was never the food, but the experience, the connection, the bonds we formed in those moments, bonds that now serve as a refuge when it rains outside.

The first image was made in Canva and the others are from my personal gallery. The text was translated with Deepl

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