Pizza Pizza!

I stroll the supermarket with the same fierce determination that I do the Bergdorf Goodman shoe department.  And just like with shoes, when it comes to food, it’s a gut reaction that leads to the purchase. Louboutins? Pizza? Both elicit visceral reactions: I see. I buy. I don’t question. I don’t regret.

Recently the object of my desire was pizza. I had a 1-pound ball of dough from Whole Foods at home, ready to party on a Friday night. Starved, I scurried from deli to produce aisle to pasta aisle. What did I want?  Hunger was distracting me, making me frantic. Did I want fancy? Did I wan ghetto? Was I feeling country or rock’n’roll? Help me Donnie and Marie!

Before I knew it I was clutching salami, a jar of Ragú Pizza Quick sauce. And a pack of Entenmann’s chocolate-frosted doughnuts (not intended for pizza topping, of course – am not that gross, despite what you may have read in this blog)… plus an individually-wrapped cheese danish, also courtesy of Entenmann’s. Had you spotted me in the checkout aisle with these products I wouldn’t have faulted you for thinking I’d been inhaling an illegal substance.

Back home, I decided there was enough room on my dough for upscale and downmarket toppings: one side got lacquered in fig jam and covered with thin slices of prosciutto and a generous shaving of Parmesan; the other got Pizza quick, salami, and (naturally!) green-can Parm.

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