My college son has been home for a few days on spring break. And in that time he’s mostly been in the house—sleeping, watching way too many YouTube videos, completing some homework.
So yesterday we decided to get out for a bit, and we made our way to the local mall. There we shopped for new t-shirts, played with every gadget in the Apple store, and grabbed some pizza for lunch.
During lunch my son and I talked about school, his classes, what some old friends have been up to. Honestly, I can’t remember much of what we discussed. What I do remember is that throughout our conversation we kept going back to the pizza, each of us taking turns exclaiming that it was the best pizza we’d ever had. Loaded with cheese, a generous amount of spinach, and a thin and crispy crust. We could not stop singing the praises of these perfect pizza slices.
Today I’ve been thinking about our afternoon together, and about the delicious lunch we shared.
And I realized something.
Our lunch was a slice of pizza. In a mall. Mall pizza.
The pizza was fine. Maybe even better than average. But what made it seem so exquisitely delicious to me at the time was that I felt so happy. Being with my son made me that happy. The delight of our ordinary day together made that pizza seem extraordinary.
And then I realized something else.
My son was also unduly fond of that cheesy slice.
Perhaps he felt the same way about the time we had shared. Maybe we both found that pizza so delicious because we were happy to be eating it together.