pizza

Pizza is my panacea. It makes everything better. Need a reward? Pizza. Angry? Eat a slice of pizza! A bit drunk? Get two slices.

Personally, I blame the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (side: I wonder what effect they had my generation influencing the anchovy industry? *Bet I could PhD that). I loved the turtles and by extension developed a penchant for pizza early. I wanted to align myself with them, which I think is totally understandable AND cool.

Fast forward 20 years later and I’m still carrying that cheesy torch, though. I like to host pizza parties at my apartment (surprise me with the ingredients!) and have been known to spit little pizza raps [when I've been drinking] to cajole others to take me for a slice before we stumble home. I like to read a magazine while a boyfriend makes me (us?) pizza out of affection. I like to pull the stop button on a bus – the one that is specifically for women to feel safe late at night – so that I can get a slice and get dropped off as close to a ‘za joint as possible. Yeah, it’s that bad.

Why? Why this ardor? What’s so special about something so cheap and base?

I think it’s because pizza is a people’s food. It’s so accessible and familiar and communal. Plus, pizza is affordable, delicious, vaguely healthy and widely available. Did I mention delicious? Beyond the convenience of a slice, there’s something special and honest about splitting something up in equal pieces and sharing it. See? This sh*t is subliminal. And, have you ever met someone – other than the lactose intolerant – who says, “I hate pizza”? No, you haven’t. Neither have I. Why? Because those people don’t exist.