Constant Cravings

It sucks to be on the rag in this city.

Now, I realize that I may be in the minority here, but chocolate is not my thing. I'm just not a sweet person, I guess. I'm a salty girl.

What I want, and what I need, is pizza. Drippy cheese, burn-the-roof-of-your-mouth, grease on the napkins good pizza. But this stupid city doesn't have any. Not a single decent pizza in the whole goddamned city. At first I couldn't believe my dumb luck, and I combed the city for a worthy pizzeria. There were none. None!

This frigging city that prides itself on its diversity and international fare cannot make a pizza to save itself. In less than 50 steps from my door, I can find really great indian food, terrific mongolian grill, impressive thai food, and spicy caribbean, and a pretty good steak. But there ain't no pizza in this city, despite the yellow pages' 408 pizzeria listings for the Greater Toronto Area.

Clearly, I think about this subject way too much, but I've had about 5 days per each of the 16 months I've been here - 80 days of crampy, cranky, craving contemplation. The problem seems to be that the city relies on chains - crappy Pizza Pizza, Dominos, Pizza Nova, Pizzaville - and they all make the same crappy slices. Puke.

I grew up in eastern Ontario, where pizza is serious business. Back in the day, the mob in Montreal was running ingredients -cheese and pepperoni - and thus, they greatly encouraged restaurant owners to order generously, and those that wanted to live did just that. So pizzas were loaded with this stuff. Where I come from, pepperoni is not those gross little circles that dot most pizzas, it's ultra-thin shavings that are layered maybe an inch think over the crust (yes, ingredients go under the cheese, people!) and cheese is piled on at least that thickly over that. It's rich with calories, but worth every single one. This pizza has a heart attack waiting to happen right in the middle - a small ball of dough is placed in the middle of the pizza, and while it bakes, the grease runs toward the middle and gets trapped in the ball. Everyone would fight over this ball when the delivery guy would arrive - this is the po' man's delicacy.

I myself am very fond of the plain cheese pizza, but don't let the name deceive you. To me, if sex had a taste, that would be it. Pure indulgence. It's so sloppy and greasy and wonderful that you have to eat it with a knife and fork - the crust could never support the heaven that sits atop it. Jason, of course, prefers the "all-dressed" variety, which does not even exist in this retarded city. In Toronto, a pizza with everything on it is called "deluxe". How pansy is that? And in the lovely city of Ottawa, all of the worthy pizzerias have a special that combines pepperoni, bacon, green olives, green peppers, and mushrooms. Now that's good pizza. But the wester you get in this province, the grosser the pizza becomes.

It's probably not healthy to obsess over food like this, right? But this time of the month, I honestly believe I might die without a taste. I wonder to myself how much it might cost to have a couple of them fed-exed to the black hole of pizza (otherwise known as central Ontario). And I know that when Jason gets home from work, he'll see that look in my eye, and offer to make the trip (5-6 hours each way). He offers every time. I haven't let him yet, but every month I grow weaker.

Must.
Get.
...
Pizza...

Ah, fuck it. I guess I'll just become a raging bitch instead.