There is a dish that is the dishest of all dishes, the most wonderful food ever invented by whomever invented food. It encompasses all food groupings, apparently comes in (too) many varieties, and when eaten correctly, can satisfy any craving for hours.
Got ya wonderin'? Maybe. Got ya droolin'? Fer sure!
The dish, of course, is pizza. If I had any special event, pizza would be the main dish. If I die, please make sure pizza is served at the celebration, though that wouldn't be fair if I wasn't there to enjoy it. Actually, to be honest with you, I don't really need any sort of special event to eat pizza. Dead or alive; breakfast, lunch, or supper; hot or cold—you name it-- any time is pizza time.
Okay, I just got carried away: No breakie pizza for me, and make sure it's piping hot.
Rumour has it that there are many different types of pizza. What's next, the earth isn't flat? There isn't global warming? Calgary does have a professional hockey team? Really?
When I order pizza, I can do it with my eyes closed. Why? I don't need the road kill delight, the tofu special, or the chicken-wooah, or whatever else is on the menu. I need the one, the only, Hawaiian. For health nuts (sorry: for those with discretionary palates), there is the blessed assurance that dairy, proteins, vegetables, and grains are represented in said pizza.
And if you want more protein, simply add some slices of pepperoni.
One of my favourite relatives--Uncle John, natch-- informed me the other day that pizza did not originate from Italy. (If he says it, I believe it, and that settles it.) Personally, I think my favourite pizza came from Honolulu, but I can't prove it. I really don't care where it came from; I only care where it's going—into my stomach.
Pizza works well for a large family when travelling; you can eat it as you motor along. It also saves cutlery when you're lounging in a hotel room or around a pool. It can be eaten in the smallest of spaces--that is, there is no need for a fully-appointed table, with pots, pans, and other paraphernalia, just pinkies.
I would take pizza over, say, Chinese food any day. I like (Western) Chinese food like the guy on the next stool. It's just the unmanageables, unproncounceables, and the unknowns that get to me. At least with pizza, you can see the pineapple, the ham, and the cheese. No surprises here, people: What you see, you eat; what you eat, you know; and what you know, you enjoy.
I am thinking of opening a pizzeria somewhere soon. Too bad it rhymes with a word that starts with “die-.” If I did, I would see it as a place of respite, repose, and relaxation. Its name? Pizza Mine.
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