It seems like I’m eating a lot of pizza lately, and it’s begun to eat at me, because none of the pies I’m buying have been particularly satisfying.

Somethings always not-quite-right. Sometimes it’s the texture of the crust. Or the flavor of the sauce. Or the amount of sauce.

I’m beginning to wonder if the perfect pizza pie isn’t an illusion . . .

O, what a haunting idea. Then I found this article tonight, by Hanna Miller, in American Heritage Magazine. It’s got paragraphs & paragraphs on the history of pizza, and then at the bottom, a side bar (bottom bar? it’s not exactly to the side of anything, is it) by John Mariani listing the 10 best pizza parlors in the U.S. It’s called a coast-to-coast guide, even though five of the 10 are in New York, making it more of a New York-plus-a-couple-footnotes guide. None of them are closer to me than maybe 7 hours by car. I’m guessing delivery is out of the question.

So what’s a lady to do?

Give up pizza for awhile, I suppose.

Or make a homemade pizza. Something weird, maybe a biscuit dough crust, chopped tomato salsa and some kind of weird strong cheese . . . fresh tomatoes, cheese old and a bit skunky. A serious change-up to purge my saddened palate . . . hold me over ’til I can get back down to NYC . . .