Rosemary’s Food Baby


It’s dinnertime and my fridge is empty. I know I’m going to have to put pants on if I want to eat. Sometimes life asks a lot of you, and you have to rise to the occasion. I struggle out of my beanbag chair and put on a pair of blue jeans that are crumpled on the floor. I do the Macarena, patting down my front left pocket for my phone, my back left for my wallet, and I shake my hips a bit to hear the jingle of my keys. Jingle jingle.

I have implemented a strict no walking anywhere during break policy, so I got in my car and drove the two blocks to Rosa Rosa. Jimmy Buffet is on the radio and it looks like I’ll be a Frenchman For The Night. When I complete the short drive, I walk into the building and I become enveloped in the pizza oven heat. I walk up to the counter and place my order: a large plain pie and an Olde English. Now it’s time to play the waiting game, which more accurately is just watching the soccer game that’s on the TV. After a few minutes, I get my pizza and forty and I head back home.

Back in my room, I set the pizza box in front of me, crack the forty and search Netflix for a movie. I hunt through the labyrinth of mediocrity that is the Netflix movie page until I see Rosemary’s Baby — a Polanski horror/suspense/thriller type deal. The perfect film to keep my attention, but not distract me too much from stuffing pizza in my face, nor allow pizza to dominate my thoughts. It’s all about balance.

I open the box and take out slice number one. The opening sequence rolls across the screen as I take a bite. After spending my summer in Alabama eating Hungry Howie’s pizza, Rosa Rosa’s tastes like a Sicilian sunset. I crack the forty and the effervescent gold liquid cascades past parted lips.

Rosemary and her husband move into their new apartment, and I shake oregano onto a second slice. My fingers slide down the bottle, feeling the condensation like morning dew on a crisp May morning. I drink some more and the bubbles lace the sides of the bottle like Rosemary’s necklace: simple, delicate, graceful.

I take two more slices from the box as Rosemary’s husband befriends the elderly couple upstairs. The pizza has cooled off a bit: it’s now like wearing a sweater in November—warm enough, but a jacket would be nicer. I drink some more to try to acclimate my mouth to cooler temperatures, making the pizza seem hotter. It’s all about balance.

The Devil attacks Rosemary while she sleeps, and I can’t do anything but drink. Poor Rosemary. I finish the forty and grab a beer from the fridge. I take another slice from the box and the magic is gone. Rosemary’s innocence is lost, and my cheese has congealed. The dreaded middle stage between hot and cold—lukewarm pizza: the bane of my existence. I drink.

There are three slices left in the box, an empty forty, and a pregnant Rosemary. I keep drinking the beer and give in to my temptations to grab another slice, as Rosemary’s elderly neighbor gives her a concoction that is supposed to be good for the baby. She, too, protests but eventually gives in.

I am Rosemary. There is a demon growing inside of me, but mine is made of pizza. Rosemary begins to suspect witchcraft is involved, as do I. I don’t want any more pizza, but I find myself taking a seventh slice. As I eat, I curse the devil and his black magic pizza. I keep drinking, hoping the elixir will cure me of the hunger. I’m already so full.

After Rosemary gives birth, her husband tells her that there were complications and the baby didn’t survive. She is distraught and falls into depression, and I run out of beer. She keeps hearing a baby crying through the walls of the apartment and decides to investigate as I put each empty bottle to my lips trying to salvage the dregs. She finds her husband, the elderly couple, the rest of the coven of witches, and her demon baby in the apartment upstairs. She gets talked into raising the baby, and I finish what I started by picking up the eighth slice of pizza.

Image via Shutterstock

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