Oh hi! I know I haven’t been around here much. This is because I spent last week sailing on a sea of sneezing—every waking moment devoted to mucus management. New life development: I’M ALLERGIC TO SPRING.
On another note entirely, recent happenings have me thinking heavily about pizza. The source of its power. My relationship to it. Et cetera.
If you’re a Portlander, then you know that “pizza as art” is kinda having a moment right now (see below). But I’m just talking pizza as sustenance here—a nearly perfect food that’s at its best when you’re gut is so empty it’s about to digest itself. Hot, crunchy but also soft, comforting, a modest food of the common man.
Basically, pizza rules because it’s fucking easy and good. I’m sad about trends in my town toward overly fancy pizza with trumped-up prices and ingredients. Ovens fired with special woods. Drizzles with oils of truffle. Farm-to-table sausage toppings. And so on.
This trend—it’s driving me to only make pizza at home now, a decree I already passed on breakfast years ago cuz I can make a WAYYY better chive and cheese scramble than I could EVER get for $9 after waiting in line for an hour eating out. Similarly, I can grab a ball of dough for 2 bux at Trader Joe’s and in no time have an entire steaming pie!
Anyway, at a certain point, everyone’s gotta ask themselves, “What does pizza mean to me?”
For every hot slice topped with simple cheese or whatever else is on hand (I’m not opposed to a pile of fresh arugula, but please, no potatoes—potatoes don’t belong on pizza), it’s the easy comfort of your surroundings and the kindness and love of the people you are with that makes it all GOOD.
Okay, I’m done now.
Pizza-hawk tattoo, courtesy of Screedler.
Subversive pizza art, courtesy of Dave Banks.
Pizza-skull sticker for Daddies Board Shop, courtesy of Screedler.