I am kicking off our third and final week of Guilty Secrets, where we're going to talk about anything and everything in our world--cyber or other--that lights our fires!
And for me, it’s the rare opportunity for the truly tasty, almost poetic slice of New York pizza.
I grew up in New York and as a teenager, inhaled pizza on almost a daily basis. But once I moved west, a delicious, drippy slice of New York pizza became a memory. The standard fare in California is a whiter, thicker cheese, a plumper, doughier crust, and often, uncooked veggies (which my NY-reared husband considers the ultimate affront).
As I’ve been known to say, west coast pizza would be perfectly fine if it had another name like tomato/cheese/vegetable bread or something. It’s the “pizza” designation that is the deal-breaker for me.
I can count on one hand how many times I’ve had good, true, New York pizza in the past fifteen years, and three of those were last August, when I went back for a visit to old friends, my editor and agent. Each time, it was like a sensory experience for me. And as I stood on Lexington Avenue, munching a warm slice off waxed paper above a plain paper plate, I actually felt my eyes fill with tears in a sort of reach-back to the uncertain teen who’d wolfed so many similar slices. And I decided that if I could momentarily time-travel to tell her about how “our” life would go, she would be proud of me for having fulfilled so many of our dreams. (Cheesy, huh, and pun totally intended...)
So, anyway, yay for New York Pizza and its many wonderful properties!
What I’m Reading: Al Capone Does My Shirts, Gennifer Choldenko
Top Ten Uses for an Unworn Prom Dress
How to Hook a Hottie, January, 2008
The ABC’s of Kissing Boys, Spring, 2009