Like a big pizza pie, that's amore'.......
I love pizza.
Hard to say without some serious psychoanalysis and if I got on a couch right now, I'd probably nap. So a visit to the shrink, although advisable for a lot of reasons, is out of the question at the moment.
So I'll guess. When I was a kid, I was a fussy eater (just ask my mother, she'll tell ya). Being an only child, and probably a loud whiny one when not given what I wanted I suspect that early on, I decided I liked pizza. I also suspect my parents decided early on to keep me quiet.
If the brat wants pizza and he'll shut up, let's give him pizza.
There is a scientific basis to this discussion. It's called The Pizza Cognition Theory.
Click on that link for the whole explanation, but basically it states that ...
I must have had a hell of a first slice of pizza. Thanks Mom & Dad.
I may have had pizza in Germany or Italy as an infant (Dad was stationed in Germany)-I'll have to check with Mom on that, but my earliest memories, and lord they're good ones are having pizza at the Dew Drop Inn in Saranac Lake.
The Dew Drop Inn was run by Forrest "Dew Drop" Morgan.
Here's a pic I grabbed from Bunk's Place.
Suffice it to say Dew Drop's was a happening place when I was a kid in the '60s.
Dew is legendary.
They had celeb waitresses before they were celebs, like Faye Dunaway.
Faye was and is hot.
So back to pizza. My parents would bring me there on occasion. If you were lucky, you'd get a table on the enclosed porch, which was literally a foot or two above the Saranac River. As a kid, it was a treat to go there. You'd get these little packaged breadsticks and crackers and butter and watch the ducks on the river while waiting for the pie to come.
Then there was Rosie. She was a waitress, and if you lucky you got Rosie to serve you. She was a character. Sweet, funny and she always wore these giant earrings. Giant hoops and many others that made an imprint in my memory along with the pizza. The pizza was neopolitan-thin crust. I can still see the char on the bubbles of cheese that popped while the pie was in the oven.
On the ride home which was about 20 minutes, sometimes I'd fall asleep, other times I'd chew on the leftover crust in the back seat of the Chevy Impala.
If I was lucky, there's be a piece to munch on the next day, and therein lies my affliction for leftover pizza.
I'm a firm believer in The Pizza Cognition Theory.
How about you?