Dear, My New York Pizza

Dear My NY Pizza,

I am beyond ecstatic you are about to make the long journey across the Midwest. Our separation has been much too long, the withdrawal I've been experiencing overwhelming at times. Ah, but your ticket has been purchased, flight plans arranged, and in only two weekends my table will be set for only you.

Nothing I've found out here in the great bible belt can match your perfection. The way your crust lays so serenely flat, crisping just perfectly around the edges. Your dough, hand tossed to perfection, cradles your succulently sensual red sauce spiced just so. Oh, how your cheese melts. Oozing, seeping, over what seem like fixed borders of your haphazardly sliced triangular body. Oils pour from your surface. I smite those who dare to blot your carefully crafted artistry. Oh ho! Oh no! I take you as you are, My NY Pizza.

As you make your way aboard the aircraft, do not let others steal you in their greed. You are mine, and mine alone. I have been practicing the two hand hold it will take to fully encompass your great rapture. Should those devious flight wenches attempt to stow you in an overhead compartment, folding you upon yourself, do not allow it! Take your seat with the rest of the paying passengers. By all means, invade first class with every ounce of your grandeur. Make sure your seat belt is safely fastened and tightened, and your escort adeptly affixes the oxygen mask in the event of an emergency. I've even given the go ahead to utilize your mighty girth as a flotation device. What ever it takes to get you to me.

Mazzios? I think not. Papa Johns? Pardon my mockery. Marios? Hideaway? All lovely attempts, but just not the same, rest assured. When my Italian ancestors came through Ellis Island, I am sure the Sooner State is not what held out much epicurean promise for them as history unfurled. Just as in the Big Apple, BBQ is left much better off alone. Alas, My NY Pizza, I have been waiting. The count down is beginning, my mouth salivating in sheer anticipation of you.

Pears? Bananas? Childs play. And whatever it is they think they have going in Chicago or California? That can hardly be called pizza. Why those are fancy pants, fork and knife affairs. You are the original. My first love.

I am ready.

Christina Maria Cassanova III