Sally Breslin: My Life

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Monday, November 17, 2025

I'M READY FOR "DEATH BY PIZZA"

I’ve been craving pizza to the point of distraction lately. It seems as if everywhere I turn, pizza keeps popping up to taunt me – on TV, the Internet, supermarket flyers and even my friends raving about someplace they recently went for pizza and how it was the best thing they’d ever eaten.

Which is why I’m on the verge of un-friending all of them on social media.

The problem is I haven’t been able to eat pizza since the 1980s, when I received the news from my doctor that all of my years of stomach pains and terrible cramps were due to the fact I was both lactose and fructose intolerant. I immediately was put on a diet that eliminated both offenders…which basically meant if something tasted good, I couldn’t have it. However, if it tasted like wallpaper-paste spread on a sheet of cardboard, then I was in luck.

Anyway, to confirm just how desperate I am for pizza right now, I’d even settle for one of those squares of pizza they used to sell at the drive-in movies – the squares that were sprinkled with powdered cheese and sat under a light-bulb for five hours to keep them warm. I think they were the same squares the ladies in the school cafeteria used to dole out on Fridays, back when it still was considered a big sin to eat meat on that day.

My first taste of real, fresh Italian pizza was back when I was about 11 and the local YMCA held weekly dances for kids in the fifth and sixth grades. Not far from the dance was a pizza parlor where a group of us would head afterwards and each get a huge slice with extra cheese, for only 25 cents. Add a Coke and it was 35 cents. I’d then spend the entire week craving another slice…or more. To this day, I still don’t know if I went to those dances because I enjoyed the dancing or just because I was hooked on that pizza.

If my late husband still were here right now, my torture would be even more unbearable. The man’s entire diet consisted of cheeseburgers and pizza. In fact, when one of the pizza chains came out with an actual cheeseburger pizza, he couldn’t have been more excited if he’d won the lottery.

It never ceased to amaze me, however, that he liked pizza. I mean, he was the type who wouldn’t even so much as try certain foods because he judged them solely on the way they looked. He wouldn’t eat rice because it looked like maggots. He wouldn’t eat spaghetti because it looked like worms. He turned his nose up at spinach and lettuce because they reminded him of the grass and weeds out in our backyard. And the one time I attempted to serve him mushrooms, he accused me of trying to kill him.

“So how on earth did you ever talk yourself into trying pizza for the first time?” I couldn’t resist asking him. “Let’s face it, pizza can resemble a lot of disgusting things if you’re judging it only by its looks.”

He said he’d gone out clubbing with a group of his army buddies one night, and after a few drinks the guys had been hungry and ordered pizza. My husband had been determined not to have any, but the guys made bets on which one of them could succeed in “convincing” him to try it.

I had the feeling the winner of that bet probably had to physically restrain my husband and shove that first bite down his throat. But whatever method the guy used, the rest was history. A new pizza-lover had been born.

I was tempted to ask my husband for the name of the guy so I could hire him to come over every night and also “convince” him to eat a few peas or carrots. My husband’s reason for refusing to eat carrots was because they were most commonly seen as noses on snowmen, so whenever he saw a carrot, he associated it with boogers (I’m totally serious here).

Throughout the years, he and I must have visited every pizza parlor/restaurant within a 300-mile radius. The minute a new one opened, we would race to it as if the owners were giving away $100 bills.

To my embarrassment, no matter what type of restaurant we were in, my husband still would ask if they had pizza. One time, when we went to a Chinese restaurant with friends (their choice, not ours, of course) and he asked the server if they had pizza, I nearly burst out laughing at the poor guy’s bewildered expression. As he stood there in front of a wall festooned with Chinese dragons, he looked as if he wanted to say, "Seriously, does this look like an Italian restaurant to you?"

But there was another time when my husband asked for pizza and I couldn’t control my laughter. It was the year we celebrated our 25^th wedding anniversary with a trip to Las Vegas. On the night of our anniversary we decided to put on our best clothes, go to a fancy restaurant and splurge on an expensive meal – one that was served on actual plates with real silverware laid out on tables that featured linen tablecloths and napkins.

So I cringed when my husband asked the man who took our order if they had pizza. To my shock (and my husband’s delight), he said they could make one especially for him.

Sure enough, a formally dressed server delivered his pizza on a round, pedestal-type serving platter with a lid on the top. Using a silver pie-serving utensil, he delivered one slice to my husband’s plate and then stood there, his hands behind his back, patiently waiting until my husband finished chewing and was ready for the next slice, which he again served to him.

I chuckled as I ate my steak and watched the expression on my husband’s face grow more and more pained as the server continued to stand there and repeatedly ask, “Are you ready for another slice, sir?”

My husband had never had any problem eating an entire pizza in one sitting, but after he choked down slice number three-and-a-half, he told the server he was full and asked if he could take the rest back to our hotel. When we saw the bill, we determined it had to be the most expensive pizza in the history of pizzas. Even worse, my husband said it wasn’t even half as good as Pizza Hut’s.

But to me it was worth every penny because it gave me something to tease him about for years.

After my husband retired, his knees became so stiff and painful, he had to use a walker and rarely left the house. So I became the official pizza pick-up person for him, mainly because no one delivered any type of food to the prehistoric rainforest where we lived.

Depending on his mood, it was a different place every week – Domino’s, Pizza Hut, Giovanni’s or one of the many “Houses” of Pizza…Espom House, Suncook House, Hooksett House, Supreme House, Out House (okay, maybe I made up that last one). If Door Dash had been around back then, I could have made a lot of extra money picking up pizzas and delivering them, seeing I was going to be at just about every pizza parlor in the area at some point anyway.

Many times when I was grocery shopping, my husband would call me and ask if I could pick up a pizza on my way home. I always did, but one afternoon a big snowstorm was rolling in, so I wanted to get home as soon as possible.

“That’s okay,” he said. “Just grab one of the pizzas they sell in the deli. It will do.”

That sounded easy enough. “Okay.”

“And seeing you’re in the supermarket,” he added, “maybe you also can pick up a package of mozzarella, some pepperoni, grated cheddar cheese and a pack of ground beef to add to the pizza…you know, to make it taste a little better?”

It ended up costing me about $25.

But now I think I finally do understand my husband's constant craving for pizza and can empathize, mainly because I would be willing to sell one of my kidneys for just one slice right about now.

Of course, after I ate it my stomach would cramp up in protest and seek its revenge by forcing me to camp out in the bathroom for about three days.

But still…I’m seriously considering it.

And while I’m at it, I figure I also might as well treat myself to some ice cream for dessert…with half a can of real whipped cream on top.

After all, if I’m going to suffer, I want to make certain it’s really worth it.

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Monday, November 10, 2025

THANKSGIVING ALWAYS MAKES ME WONDER ABOUT GOOD OLD "CHESTER"

Every year as Thanksgiving Day approaches, I always think back to the wild turkeys that used to show up on my property every morning to clean up whatever the birds dropped out of the bird feeder.

The first time the turkeys arrived – two really big males and three hens – I stared at them in awe through the kitchen window.

That’s because before we moved out to the middle of nowhere, the only turkeys I’d ever seen up close were in supermarkets and had “Butterball” printed on them.

I was fascinated watching the turkeys and learning about their habits. One thing I learned that really surprised me, however, happened one morning when I let my dogs out into the yard without checking first. The second the turkeys spotted the dogs, they all took flight up into the nearest pine trees.

Up until then, thanks to a 1978 episode of a TV show called WKRP in Cincinnati, I'd always believed turkeys couldn't fly. In that particular episode, called "Turkeys Away," the radio station, as part of a Thanksgiving promotion, dropped live turkeys (which were meant to be prizes) from a helicopter into a shopping center. The newsman covering the event gasped out something like, "The turkeys are crashing to the ground right in front of my eyes!" and the station manager groaned, "I swear, I thought turkeys could fly."

Anyway, one day, as the aforementioned two males and three hens were merrily pecking away at the seeds underneath my feeder, a new male, a loner, approached the group. He looked scrawny compared to the other two males, and he also had a prominent limp. Still, he didn’t seem easily intimidated when one of the big males attempted to scare him off. No, that scrawny, limping turkey stood his ground and was prepared to fight back.

So eventually the group allowed him to hang out with them.

My husband started calling him Chester, in honor of one of his favorite characters on the old TV show Gunsmoke (for those of you who are too young to remember Gunsmoke, Deputy Chester Goode was a main character who had a bad leg and hobbled around Dodge City).

I enjoyed watching Chester (the turkey), especially in his efforts to attract one of the hens. I suspected he might have sensed she was the odd female out…that the other two hens already had claimed the two big males as theirs, so she was fair game.

Every time she walked by Chester, he’d fan out his tail, puff out his chest and strut around with his wings dragging on the ground. And every time he did, she completely ignored him. The minute she’d walk off, leaving him standing there, he’d deflate like a punctured balloon. His chest would go flat, his fanned-out tail would droop and his head would hang. It was a pretty sad sight.

“I feel bad for poor Chester,” I said to my husband. “He tries every single morning to get the attention of one of the hens and she just snubs him. Do you think she’s rejecting him just because he has a limp?”

“Nah,” my husband said. “She’s probably just playing hard to get.”

A few days later, Chester showed up looking as if he’d been attacked by a gang of thugs. His tail feathers were sticking out at odd angles, one wing was drooping, and his limp was even more pronounced. I wondered if maybe he’d tried to get too friendly with the hen of his dreams and she’d retaliated by beating him up…either that, or he’d been hit by a car.

Still, even in his pathetic-looking condition, Chester continued to show off in front of the hen…and she continued to act as if he were invisible.

It took another few days, but early one morning something strange happened. Chester, as usual, was trying to capture his beloved hen’s attention, when she suddenly walked over to him and stretched out on the ground right in front of him. I had no idea what her actions meant, so I rushed to my computer and looked up information on turkeys’ body language.

“When a hen is ready to breed with a gobbler,” it said, “she often will lie down on her stomach in front of him and wiggle her tail as a signal.”

I was so excited, I woke up my husband. “Chester’s finally going to get lucky!” I shouted as I burst into the bedroom. “His persistence finally paid off! I’m so thrilled for him!”

My husband apparently didn’t share my sentiment. “Please tell me you’re not planning to videotape the event,” he muttered, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

I didn’t see Chester or the hen for quite a while after that. I started to worry that maybe Chester accidentally had killed her in a fit of pent-up passion, or maybe she had died during childbirth (egg birth?).

But one morning, to my surprise and delight, out of the woods strutted Chester, the hen and eight little ones (a.k.a. “poults”). I was so happy for the new family, I felt like throwing a party for them.

Once again, I woke up my husband.

“We’re surrogate grandparents! Chester’s girlfriend had babies!”

This time, he actually climbed out of bed to join me at the window. Just as he did, Chester lowered his head and charged at the hen when she tried to get too close to him while he was eating.

“Hmph! Look at that!” I said. “Now that she’s had his kids, he’s chasing her away!”

“I told you he wanted her only because she was playing hard to get,” my husband said. “He’s probably bored now.” He stared at Chester for a moment before he added, “You know, fatherhood really seems to be agreeing with him, though. He’s filled out a lot. I wonder how much he weighs now?”

I narrowed my eyes at my husband. “You’re picturing him smothered in gravy, aren’t you?”

He chuckled. “I plead the fifth. I’m going back to bed now.”

The last time I saw any turkeys on my land was over four years ago. I often wonder what happened to Chester and his little family, especially during this time of year.

But unlike my late husband did, when I think about Chester, I’m not picturing him roasted and lying on a turkey platter on the Thanksgiving table.

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Tuesday, November 4, 2025

I CAN'T FIND ANYONE BRAVE ENOUGH OR CHEAP ENOUGH TO PLOW MY DRIVEWAY THIS WINTER

I realize the skiers, snowboarders and snowmobile enthusiasts might dislike me for saying this, but I’m hoping for very little or no snow this winter.

It’s not that I don’t like snow…as long as I don’t have to drive in it. I think it gives everything a fresh, clean look (especially when it covers the dog poop I failed to pick up in the yard), and I’m particularly fond of the powdery kind of snow that sparkles in the light.

No, the problem with snow is my driveway (a.k.a. the asphalt menace from Hell). It has fought against and defeated even the bravest of souls who have dared to attempt to plow it throughout the years. And as a result, I now have no one to remove any snow that will defy my threats and still land on it this winter.

At least not for a price I can afford.

This driveway has been a curse since day one, mainly because the town wouldn’t grant a permit for the driveway that already existed on the property when my husband and I purchased it. Why not? Because that driveway exited into the exact spot in a cul-de-sac where the town piled up the mountains of snow its road crews plowed every winter.

After much debate, the town finally did approve a new location for our driveway...six acres away on the most overgrown, isolated part of the property. Clearing that area was the equivalent of clearing the Forest Primeval.

By the time the new driveway was completed and actually reached the site of our future house, it was over 220 feet long and had so many curves in it due to all of the boulders it had to avoid along the way, even a snake would break its back trying to follow it.

And to this day, people still mistake my driveway for a road.

But despite my careful placement of fluorescent driveway stakes each winter, nearly every plow driver I’ve hired has managed to wipe out most of them, knocking them down as if they were bowling pins. By now, I've purchased so many stakes, I figure I probably own stock in at least two of the companies that manufacture them...and I still have fiberglass splinters embedded in my skin to prove it.

Even though I always made certain to clearly mark where the asphalt area in front of the garage ended and my front lawn began, those stakes also promptly were plowed right down, as if they were invisible. Then the trucks plowed right across my lawn and scraped it up into a giant jelly-roll that took until July to fully melt.

The sides of my driveway, however, always have been the biggest problem because they contain an assortment of ravines and ditches that have caused damage to at least three trucks. One hit a tree, one ran over the remnants of an old stone-wall and tore off some major part underneath his truck, and another dented a front rim when it struck one of the culvert walls.

As a result, the first two plow guys I hired said, “Never again!” and quit. The third one stuck around, but said he would have to charge me by the inch for each storm. Up to six inches was $60. From six inches to a foot was $80. Anything over a foot was $100. And a blizzard was a flat $120.

So during each snowstorm, I’d be outside with my ruler every hour, measuring the inches and praying the snow would stop before it reached the next price level. I was a wreck, because even a mere quarter of an inch could force to me to cough up an extra $20.

Finally, an angel of mercy came to my rescue in the form of a guy named Chris, who read about my plight on Facebook and messaged me. He said he enjoyed helping people and would be more than happy to plow my driveway for $30 per storm, no matter how deep the snow was. He added, “And if you don’t have the money right away, don’t worry about it.”

I couldn’t believe my good fortune. But I was smart enough not to get too excited, mainly because I knew from experience that once the poor guy took a look at my driveway in person, he’d either break all speed records getting as far away from it as possible, or he would increase his price by about $85.

But Chris was amazing. The driveway didn’t seem to faze him at all. He plowed it in record time, and with everything – his truck, my lawn, his essential body parts – all still perfectly intact. One time, when he noticed how icy my driveway was underneath the snow, he returned with a truckload of sand, free of charge. “I didn’t want you to slip and fall while walking out to get your mail,” he said.

I had to pinch myself to make certain I wasn't dreaming.

But what really made me want to canonize Chris was one brutal winter when he was hospitalized with Covid. After several days he, still weak and tired, finally was discharged late one afternoon. The moment he got home, he jumped into his truck and headed right over to plow my driveway because it had snowed the day before and he was afraid I’d be trapped in my house.

Unfortunately, Covid eventually took its toll on Chris’ health, and he ended up with chronic lung and breathing problems and had to give up plowing.

So last winter I became plow-less. My friend’s husband was kind enough to offer to come over to plow for me, but after he knocked down a small pine tree and got a big scratch on the top of his truck from a low-hanging, snow-weighted branch, he said he feared for his life and wouldn’t be returning.

I wasn’t surprised.

Twice last winter, out of sheer desperation, I, using only a shovel, tackled the driveway myself. It took me about six hours…and half a bottle of Tylenol. The huge snowbank at the street end of the driveway – the snowbank that came up to my waist and contained chunks of ice the size of basketballs – nearly led to my premature demise. At one point, I became so exhausted and desperate while struggling to clear it, when I saw a plow truck approaching from a distance, I draped my body over the top of the banking, hoping the guy would stop to see if I was alive, and then take pity on me.

Instead, he almost ran over me.

“Sure,” I muttered, sitting up and glaring at the truck's tail-lights as the vehicle drove out of sight. “I’ll bet if I were some 20-something hot chick wearing only boots, a hat and a fur bikini, he would have stopped to help me!”

Instead, the guy probably was thinking, “That old lady hasn’t got long for this world anyway, so why bother?”

Alas, now that winter soon will be rearing its fiendish little head once again, I’m feeling panicky. I can’t find anyone even remotely close to my price range (no more than $40 per storm) to tackle my driveway. And I sincerely doubt the first snowstorm of the season is going to say, “Oh, poor Sally! She has no one to plow her out. So I'll be merciful and won’t allow even one flake of snow to land on her property.”

MY DRIVEWAY

I’m also concerned that if I attempt to shovel the driveway myself again this winter, I’ll end up becoming a missing person until the spring thaw reveals my well-preserved frozen body lying underneath all of the snow.

There’s one other thing I might try first, however, out of sheer desperation… hire someone to exorcize my driveway.

That is, if the exorcist charges less than $40.

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