Ordering takeout or delivery has never been a habit in my house. If we’re feeling uninspired or lazy in the face of cooking dinner, we’ll have a sit-down meal at a restaurant. Usually we’re driven by a change in cuisine; we frequently go out for Japanese or Thai, sometimes Indian, and occasionally Lebanese, Greek, or Italian.

Pizza is usually reserved for the times when large groups of teenagers fill our house, since it’s the simplest way to feed a lot of people without much complaint or expense. Most often we buy take-and-bake pizzas, since we can get them earlier in the day and then cook them when guests arrive. For me, the idea of having a pizza delivered was always something that happened in books and movies.

The first time we ordered a pizza to be delivered was in Portugal. We were staying in Porto, and it was POURING rain all day. It’s an industrial town where most of the draw is being out on the river or walking through the town’s few and interspersed attractions, so rain is quick to halt all activity. Some restaurants only have outdoor seating near the water and had to completely shut down for the day.

As for us, my mom refused to leave our cozy apartment to get dinner and suggested that we order a pizza. This is a lot easier said than done, of course, because it involves tracking down the phone number for the nearest Pizza Hut and then explaining to a non-native English speaker exactly what we want and how to get it to us. The language barrier definitely proved difficult, but the pizza arrived exactly how we ordered it.

After two weeks of nothing but the frustratingly similar traditional Portuguese restaurants, we all appreciated having a familiar slice of American-style pizza. And we didn’t even have to bake it ourselves.

This post is the start of my new series. It’s not mind-blowingly original, but it’ll be fun. On the first day of each month, I’ll share the story of one of my “firsts.” Some are more frivolous (like this one) while others are serious, but hopefully you’ll enjoy them all!