I love pizza. I know, I know; everyone loves pizza. It's become a staple in America's diet. People love pizza.
I don't simply love pizza, though. I enjoy it; I cherish it; I crave it; I covet it; I want it all the time, for every meal. I'm not exaggerating. I have a relationship with pizza. When I don't see it for a while, I miss it. When we meet again, I'm overcome with joy. I feel like there are no words to describe my love affair with pizza.
First of all, there's no pizza without dough. White, wheat, thin, thick: I'll eat it all, though a light, puffy, chewy dough is the best (unless we're talking my mom's pizza dough recipe--it's thin, but still chewy). Just the image of pizza dough makes my brain cells dance for joy. I've never been one of those pizza eaters who leaves the crust after the sauce and cheese has been devoured. I'm aware of the calories saved if the crust is left behind, but forget it. I leave no pizza crumbs behind.
Think about it; the key ingredients are individually delicious. For me, I prefer red sauce on my pie. The red sauce is made from tomatoes, one of my favorite veggies. The sweet tartness of tomato sauce makes my taste buds jump for joy. And the color--a rich red that screams celebration. Tomato sauce is a staple in my diet; almost all of my key dinners include tomato sauce, and if recipes don't call for sauce, you can bet there's a tomato hanging out somewhere. The best place for tomatoes and tomato sauce to be chillin' is on top of pizza dough.
A pizza isn't a pizza without cheese. Mozzarella, Parmesan, Provolone: cheese. If baked properly, it browns in a few areas; it stretches; it melts; it becomes one with the sauce and the dough. Cheese on pizza is like hot fudge on ice cream and a warm blanket on a cold night. It completes the heavenly union of the dough and sauce. A pizza without cheese would be like Elvis Presley without his signature leg jiggle--it wouldn't be as intoxicating.
I. Love. Pizza.
I'm also trying to lose weight. My love of pizza pie fused with my desire for a healthy, flab-free life creates some tension. I can say "no" to most foods: chocolate, ice cream, cookies, cakes, alcohol--I am able to refuse these temptations like children refuse bedtimes.
Pizza, however, is trouble. I truly believe in not depriving myself. Because I want pizza constantly, I allow myself a Lean Cuisine pizza once a week, or I'll make one out of an English Muffin (my sister turned me onto this, and it works). Last night, dinner for me was polenta with roasted veggies (tomatoes, red peppers, portobellos). My husband threw a DiGiorno's pizza in the oven. Cruel? No. I know that I have to become strong around pizza, so I don't discourage him when he wants one. Besides, I had a delicious meal cooking. And then--
I found myself salivating, wanting the smallest bite of cheese, sauce, and dough. I sat down with my Weight-Watchers-approved meal of polenta and veggies, but my fingers inadvertently moved toward my husband's plate of hot, aromatic pizza. I almost gave in. I almost cut a piece in half.
I didn't. I didn't eat pizza last night. I looked at it, longed for it, and fought against the pull it has on my mind and emotions. I'm proud of myself. I'll forever stand by the moderation tip--everything in moderation and no deprivation leads to healthy eating habits. I'll have pizza this week, guaranteed. But my relationship with pizza is a dangerous, unhealthy one. It's like a drug; it's my drug, and drugs aren't good for diets. I have to learn to say no to pizza sometimes. And I am. But I'll never break up with it. Ever.
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