For my own protection, I do not expect much from frozen pizza
I have treated it as an oddity, a perversion, a guilty pleasure
A way to satiate sinful urges that demand pepperoni or stuffed crust
Or sometimes both. Sometimes more.
These dark desires have never called for cauliflower, broccoli, or sweet potatoes
But Amy’s thinks it can change me
Do I believe Amy’s—or I, myself—can move me?
I’ve never planned for a respectable, responsible dinner involving frozen pizza
As I have many times with cauliflower, broccoli, and sweet potatoes
And I believe in the glory (and relish every second) of guilty pleasures,
The thrilling smacks of naughtiness which, as I’ve grown, I stumble upon no more
I’ve stopped smoking cigarettes. I’ve stopped drinking gin. Leave me be with my croissant crust
Truly, croissants should never have been considered a cromulent pizza crust!
And that is precisely why it appeals to me
Someone built a pie of cheese and sauce and thought, “No, I must have more”
“More saturated fat, more salt, more everything wrong (but so right) about frozen pizza”
It exists for vice. It exists for pleasure
Not for cauliflower, broccoli, or sweet potatoes
I can’t fathom staring at a heap of cauliflower, broccoli, and sweet potatoes
Thinking “That would make one damn delicious pizza crust”?
It seems a complete misunderstanding of the concept of pleasure
I know how to crave vegetables in a violent way. They are dear to me.
Vegetables are not what is needed when the demons in my belly bellow for frozen pizza
They want mouth burning, cheese-oozing grease-drenched violence, and nothing more.
But I find myself crawling towards better things. I’ve walked miles on the bodies of monsters I’ve slain, and shall walk miles more
It’s made my body weary. It’s made it grow old. It’s made it cry out for cauliflower, broccoli, and sweet potatoes
And with an exasperated sigh admit I need them more than (I think) I need pizza.
I’ve praised Amy’s in the realm of frozen burritos. I prayed for Amy’s in the realm of alternative pizza crust.
I cut the pizza into six slices; the wheel audibly smashing through crispy edges speckled with burnt cheese. The noise pleased me.
It folded with a snap like a bar pie. Again, I am reminded of how small a sound can be so outsized with pleasure.
I sat eating quietly, with every bite forcing me to rethink my definition of guilty pleasure
It is a bruise that hurts when you touch it, the pain making you want to touch it more. Much more
The discomfort has always been irresistible to me
But now I feast on cauliflower, broccoli, and sweet potatoes
That have been turned into an utterly astounding crust
More irresistible than uncomfortable. More irresistible than what I knew as frozen pizza.
An undercurrent of caramelized tomatoes shakes me, I lick its remains off the tips of my fingers with pleasure
This is now what I want out of frozen pizza. I want all this and more
I want cauliflower, broccoli, and sweet potatoes.
I want Amy’s veggie crust.