How cheese colonised the chapati

Once upon a time, in a modest kitchen fragrant with cumin and coriander, I ruled. My weapon? The rolling pin. My battleground? Chapatis versus hungry children. My victory? Clean plates and sleepy smiles. And then, like a soft-cheesy storm, it entered our lives—the round, the glorious, the unstoppable: pizza.

Who can resist that golden-crusted circle of sin dripping with cheese and saucy secrets? I certainly couldn’t. But this isn’t just about temptation—it is a tale of transformation. From the heart of a mother now bewildered in her once-mighty kitchen, watching her kids whisper sweet nothings to a box from “PizzaCrafto” or “Cheese4U.”

I once heard, “Ma, what’s for dinner?” Now it is, “Ma, OTP please, my pizza’s almost here.” When it arrives, the box is opened with more reverence than the family photo album. My parathas sulk quietly in the corner, shunned like Doordarshan in the Netflix age. Oh, Pizza! You round, rebellious rogue! You spin in ovens and hearts alike. From Naples to Noida your fame has flown, and my kadhi-chawal now feels alone.

Pizza brings joy—and also guilt, garnished generously. For every bite of mozzarella, there’s a gym membership silently judging from the wallet. Pizza is that charismatic bad boy you shouldn’t fall for—but do, repeatedly, with extra cheese. My son once reasoned, “Ma, pizza has veggies too. It’s practically a salad.” So now, ‘healthy’ is just a thin crust away from hypocrisy. Round pizzas bring round bellies, leading to our rounds of parks, dieting apps, and regret.

In my childhood, weekends meant pakoras and spiced lemonade. Birthdays came with biryani and coconut laddoos. Today, birthdays are incomplete without pepperoni parades and jalapeño joy. My niece even demanded a “pizza-themed” birthday. Yet I confess I too have danced with desire. In the dark corners of my kitchen, while everyone sleeps, I’ve warmed a leftover slice in the microwave and eaten it like stolen treasure. Pizza doesn’t just conquer plates—it colonises conscience.

Still, I can’t deny its moments: the joy on my children’s faces as they debate toppings, the midnight giggles after a shared slice, and the ease it brings when chopping onions feels like a Himalayan task. But pizza never comes alone. It arrives with its rowdy cousins—burgers bloated with bravado; garlic bread plotting waistline warfare; and that sly villain: molten chocolate fudge. Together they march in like an edible Avengers team—delicious, dangerous, and determined to dethrone daal-chawal.

If Shakespeare were alive today, he’d sigh, “Et tu, Pizza?” before reaching for a thin-crust Margherita. So here’s my final slice of sanity:

Eat the pizza—but don’t forget the pickle jar, the pulao that hums of home, and the ghee-kissed rotis that smell like childhood. Let pizza stay the pop star of indulgence, not the staple of every hungry hour. While cheese may melt hearts, tradition sticks to your ribs—and your roots. Now excuse me while I sneak spinach into a pizza and call it Detox Delight before my son notices it is not extra cheese. Wish me strength—and stealth.

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.