A Slice of Christmas Magic (With Extra Cheese)

Every Christmas has its miracle stories. Like the ones where nobody brings up politics during the family gathering. Or, the one where the house doesn’t catch fire because of how you wired the lights like in the movie Christmas Vacation. And then there’s the one about how pizza can show up right when needed most.

The thing is, these stories aren’t unique. Some version of it will happen in homes all over our great land this year. Different houses, different families, same moment. That pause. That sigh. That realization that the holiday is starting to feel heavier and more stressful than joyful because something isn’t right.

It happens on Christmas day, the unofficial holiday of “everything that can go wrong will.” The house is full of yelling and discussion about whether or not the football game will be on the big TV. The kitchen is a mess and it looks Christmas exploded in the living room. The kids are melting down because the batteries weren’t included with their gifts, and the dog had eaten something wrapped in festive paper that was definitely not food.

By 2:43 p.m., the energy in the room shifts from “joyful chaos” to “silent panic” when the discussion of dinner comes up.

“What’s for dinner”, someone asked?

You could feel the thickness in the air when everyone looked to the hosts, who looked pale as a ghost realizing they were so wrapped up in holiday gift shopping they forgot to go grocery shopping, and at this point in the afternoon, the stores were all closed. Then came that weird moment where everyone pretends everything is fine while trying to act like they are happy to be socializing with those see once a year. That’s when someone—no one remembers who—said the words that changed everything

“Should we just order pizza?”

The room froze.

Pizza? On Christmas? Was that allowed? Was it legal? Would Grandma judge us from across the room while aggressively knitting?

Then something beautiful happened. Grandma looked up, pushed her glasses down her nose, and said, “Only if it has extra cheese.”

And just like that, Christmas gets saved.

You see, pizza doesn’t care if your house isn’t perfect. Pizza doesn’t ask if the table is set or if the candles match. Pizza shows up warm, dependable, and ready to be loved exactly as it is. Pizza is the friend who says, “You look tired. Sit down. I got this.”

When the doorbell rings, it feeld like the climax of a holiday movie. The kids sprint to the door. The adults sigh with relief. The dog barks like he personally ordered it. The box gets opened, and there it is: steaming, glorious, unapologetically cheesy.

People stop stressing. Plates appear. Someone pours wine without measuring. The kids laugh with mouths full of pepperoni. Grandma tells a story she’d already told three times—but this time, everyone actually listened.

Because pizza does that. It levels the room.

Pizza is a communal food. It isn’t precious or formal. It doesn’t belong to one person. It sits in the middle and invites everyone in. Hands reach at the same time. Someone negotiates for the last slice. Someone cuts one in half to share. You don’t eat pizza alone—you gather around it.

There’s something quietly inspirational about pizza at Christmas. It reminds us that traditions aren’t rules—they’re suggestions. That perfection is optional. That sometimes the most meaningful moments happen when you stop trying so hard to make them meaningful.

We spend so much of the holidays chasing a feeling we think we’re supposed to have. We compare our lives to photos, our dinners to expectations, our joy to some invisible standard. And in the process, we miss what’s right in front of us: the laughter, the silliness, and the shared moments of reaching into the same box for the last slice.

Pizza doesn’t judge. Pizza doesn’t perform. Pizza doesn’t need a theme.

It just shows up and says, “Hey. Let’s eat.”

Christmas isn’t about getting everything right. It’s about being together—even if together means sitting on the floor, balancing paper plates, laughing at how none of this went according to plan.

So here’s your reminder this season: if things feel heavy, if expectations are loud, if the magic feels a little late, order a pizza.

Thank the delivery driver. Sit closer. Grab an extra napkin. Let it be greasy. Let the day be imperfect. Let it bring you back to the moment.

Because sometimes the most Christmas thing you can do is stop chasing the perfect holiday and share a slice of the one you’re already in.

Extra cheese optional. Joy guaranteed. 🍕🎄

~ Marty ~

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If you love pizza as much as I do, follow me on Instagram @PizzaGuyKC

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