A couple of years ago, or thereabouts, I was in a class at BYU-Idaho. One of my classmates had also served his mission in Italy (he served in the mission of Milano, while I served in the now-defunct mission of Catania), so we often spoke of our separate experiences and the distinct idiosyncrasies of the Italian people. More than anything however, we often spoke of the food.
[Note: This is a game that I played as a missionary and have played many times since: each player takes a turn planning a meal from start to finish, and the first one to drool or give up because the pangs of an unrequited hunger have beset him en masse, well, he or she is the one who loses (this is a fun game to play on fast Sundays if you want to torture the person sitting next to you in church; I have often done it, and I always win).]
The class we had together was called History of the English Language, but because the English language has borrowed to no end from other language groups, it would have been impossible to fully satisfy the demands of the course content without delving into root languages, both Germanic and Romance. Consequently, the teacher often appealed to the students' areas of linguistic expertise. However, once when he was feeling especially difficult, he turned to my friend and me, the Italian experts.
Teacher: You know, I'm sure Italy is a fine place, but what has Italy done for America? Much of our language comes from French, and our country is predominantly Latino now. So what about Italy?
Me (somewhat defiant and insulted at the implications of his question): Are you kidding? If it were not for Italy, you Americans would have starved to death a long time ago.
Suffice it to say, the professor backed down and behaved himself thereafter.
To this day, I stand by my statement. Pizza, that summit of culinary understanding, the all-in-all of Italian cuisine, the sustenance of the gods, the ambrosia of angels, the very essence of which, it might be argued, is "an attribute to God himself" (see William Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice), has rescued millions upon millions from the turmoil of indecision found in that singular question: "Honey, what should we have for dinner?" Yes, many such people might have starved before triangulating an answer had not there previously existed the automatic "Let's just get a pizza." The convenience of ordering a pizza is the great selling point here. Everyone likes pizza, and everyone likes not having to take the time to cook. Also, everyone has problems making decisions, so the almighty pizza is a perfect way to circumvent any and all issues in those areas.
Unfortunately, the appeal of convenience, which is helpful as a stress-reducer and responsibility-remover, also possess the potential ability to kife a certain amount of enjoyment and accomplishment. I find that the days, such as today, whereon I decide to make pizza, crust and all, are days in which I find a significant amount of self-satisfaction and pride in what I do. I am willing to admit that sometimes calling the pizza parlor and having them deliver a pizza or two really helps you out if you're tired and worn out; I think it's a wonderful privilege, if it is not abused. However, I do not think that it should always be the answer. Sometimes convenience is not worth as much as we think it is, for 'tis "a dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy" (from William Shakespeare's The Rape of Lucrece)
For example, the dough for the pizza I made this afternoon took over an hour to make, even before I started putting on the toppings and baking it. Therefore, I would hardly call it a convenient meal. However, after putting yeast, salt, sugar, oil, and flour into warm water and kneading the h--- out of it for ten minutes, what do you think happened? The clumps of flour disappeared and the texture smoothed as the gluten broke down and took the dough to a place between too dense and too soft called kneaded nirvana. Surely, you are exaggerating somewhat, you say, with an incredulous half-grin twitching upon your mocking lips. Please "don't fancy I exaggerate" (from Eugene Field's "The Duel"); I merely relate the sentiment of satisfaction which stems from doing something for yourself rather than giving in to the tug and pull of convenience. In this case, I made a perfect crust for two large stuffed pizzas, filled with bacon, sausage, ground beef, pepperoni, and pineapple, and a pan of rather crunchy--but still quite delicious--breadsticks. Just remember: the only satisfaction one can find in ordering out is the extra-large tip you give the delivery boy when he brings the pizza to your house in thirty minutes or less.
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