Pizza

We just ate dinner, and as we were cleaning up, Anne-Michèle told Arnaud that at my house, we eat pizza for breakfast. He looked at me like I grew another head. Seriously.

Arnaud: Pizza?

Me: Yes...

Arnaud: In the morning?

Me: Yes. COLD, too. We don't heat it.

I think he's still standing in front of the fridge trying to figure out how us barbarians can walk and talk at the same time.

But I miss cold pizza.