When I was little I believed pizza was a magical food. Would it grant me powers? No. Did it make me extremely happy? Yes. And that’s why I believed it to be magical.
Growing up, my family didn’t spend much quality time. We had no “game nights” that my friends would usually complain about at school. There was one thing though. Every Friday my parents took my sisters and I to Pizza Hut. We would get a large booth in the corner. Thinking back on it, I remember the red squishy seats and the retro neon signs that were scattered about the walls. The smell of baking bread and pizza grease as we waited for our order. We always got the same thing, an order of breadsticks and a pan pizza with black olives. There were times when we ordered plain cheese or vegetable but that was it. The anticipation of waiting for our food was too much for my 6 year old self to bear.
However, when the food did arrive, it was all worth it. The cheese would still be sizzling on top and the breadsticks glistening with oil. But nothing, NOTHING compared to that first bite of hot, delicious, pizza. It’s such a surreal feeling to me. It tastes like family, childhood, and of course, magic. That feeling is something I’ve always held onto. The miracle of pizza. Whether it’s because of memories of my family or not, I still love pizza to this day. It’s one of those small joys in life. As a 20-something adult, whenever I’m stressed, I usually find myself reaching for the nostalgic comfort of a good old pie covered in sauce, topped with extra cheese please, and black olives.