It's like I don't even know you anymore.

Something strange is happening. Our last two attempts at pizza have not been disastrous. At first, I thought I was on to something when I ordered a white pie with extra-thin crust. I wondered if it was the red sauce that was playing a role in the terror.

But then, we tried it again - this time just a regular cheese pizza. Same result. Blood sugars peaked in the mid-200s but then came down nicely.  Three hours postprandial, four hours, five hours, six ... I kept waiting for pizza to rear its ugliness but it never did. We were actually in the clear.

Then it occurred to me that perhaps this wasn't a fluke. On both occasions, Charlie was extremely active earlier in the day with hockey. Combined with pizza crust so thin you can see through it, we found a formula for success.  That is, until next time, when all findings get debunked.

So, we welcome pizza back from banishment and reconsider its standing as a member of the axis of evil. Unfortunately the glorious smell of pizza triggers a Pavlovian response in Susanne who can merely lick it like a lollypop lest she feel the wrath of gastroparesis and celiac disease.

The plan will be simple then. All pizza will be made with a crust no thicker than an egg shell. On days when we know he will be eating pizza, I will wake him up early in the morning and put him on a StairMaster for a rigorous workout. If he is at a birthday party and boxes of pizza are unexpectedly brought out, Charlie will politely excuse himself and run wind sprint around the parking lot for 20 hard minutes while I time him with a stopwatch.

"Sorry, pal. Not fast enough. Give me another five laps."