Last night I did what I often do when I don’t feel like cooking: I called and ordered a pizza. Only this time, when I went to pick it up, stomach growling and money in hand, I stood staring at a vacant storefront. The place where I had my first taste of pizza as a child had vanished. But it wasn’t sadness or nostalgia I felt, more…rage. Where the hell was my pizza?
I had called the same number to get my usual, a small pizza with extra cheese. So, where exactly was the person who had answered the phone? I called them back. “Oh, we moved,” I was told.
To another town.
Annoyed, I made the trip and got a rubbery version of the pie I used to love. Quality had apparently skipped town too. To console myself, I made chocolate chip cookies and felt instantly soothed. Take that, pizza.