An Open Letter to Pizza

Dear Pizza,

Tonight I had the good fortune to consume some of your kind, at a new restaurant in town dedicated to the craft of producing you. So great was this experience, that it made me appreciate just how wonderful and dough-lightful you can be and inspired me to write to you.

I am one of your biggest fans - but I bet you hear that all the time. You have always been there in to celebrate the big moments of life but also got me through some difficult times in my life like university, the culinary options of South Africa and  Season 3 of the O.C. (RIP Marissa).

I love you so much- I could eat your face! In fact, I could happily eat you every meal for the rest of my life. You are capable of taking on the forms of breakfast, lunch and dinner. Even desert. I still remember that time you turned up on a plate before me, wearing nothing but two strategically placed strawberries and smeared in Nutella.

I like my pizza to have a touch of class. Crafted by hands that massaged the dough. A tight, thin base you know looks after itself. Good homemade values when it comes to toppings, all warmed to crisp perfection in a loving wood oven.

These days I get hot just thinking about wood ovens. My dream house would have two of them, both dedicated to pizza. I am not sure what else they could be used for- laundry?

Many dreams I have revolve around you. One day I would also like to open a minimalist pizza den, dedicated to the art of your making. It would be like a shrine, people would come to worship your form and we would call it Tri.

You know I stalk you on Instagram, checking out what you were wearing and doing on the weekend. I find you. No matter what town I am in, I find you.

I am always down for eating you. I want to get you in my mouth and taste your cheese on my lips. I fear I'll sound strange to you, the way I am carrying on. But know this- I care for you. I only want the best of you. I won't settle for those who claim to be like you, with their uncooked processed meats and bases so thick they could be worn as protective headwear. 

My son also loves you. It must be genetic. His answer to the question 'What do you want to eat?' is always 'Pizza'. Who can blame him? Although he is yet to progress past the youthful exuberance for your tropical pig and pineapple expression. One day he will know the goodness of kipfler potato, gorgonzola, rosemary, sea salt sitting on a base rubbed with the finest oil of extra virgins. The family often makes our own versions of you at home. We feel nobody understands your subtleties in our regional town.

That was until tonight.

Tonight I tasted you as you should be and as I went to bed, I breathed a pizza-stained sigh of relief. I now have good pizza. But pizza- you have, and will always have, me. 

Yours in withholding anchovies,

Lach