Each person in the United States consumes about 23 pounds of pizza per year.
That works out to 84 slices of large pepperoni pizza (if you go by CalorieKing’s calculations). Seven slices per month. Nearly two slices per week. Every person. Every year. Not counting calzones or other pizza-like products.
As a generally proud citizen of the United States, I’ve been doing my part to ingest the requisite 21,420 annual pizza calories. I eat pizza with friends and by myself, at home and in restaurants. I pack cold pizza on road trips. I sometimes eat it for breakfast. I’ve been known to both throw and attend make-your-own pizza parties. I have a brick of homemade dough in my freezer right now.
I greatly enjoy pizza culture: the crust and the cheese and the sauces and the fun toppings. The decisions around picking the variations, the discussions about topping likes and dislikes. The little stands that restaurants have to keep the pie up off the table. The sprinkle jars designed especially for parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes. The search in every new city to find a great pizza place.
I could go on, but I think you get the picture.
I used to think I couldn’t get enough pizza. As I said, I’ve been known to eat it several times a week. A place by my house has slices always at the ready for nights I don’t feel like cooking. A good friend used to live above a pizza place. Trader Joe’s has $5 frozen pizzas just begging to be doctored up and eaten with gusto.
It’s often the go-to food for groups of friends, especially lately. Last week some of us met for a large pizza and a free CD. I took leftovers home and ate them for lunch the next day. This week a different bunch had flatbread (fancy word for pizza in a tart pan) as an appetizer with our drinks before moving on to a traditional pizzeria. Except that night I didn’t even want the leftovers.
Then tonight a friend’s birthday dinner was at…you guessed it…a pizza place.
I could smell the aroma before I even got to the door: yeasty and warm, with a hint of tomato and a melty cheese topnote.
It made me a little queasy.
I walked in, sat down, and looked at the menu. Nothing sounded appetizing. I looked again, thinking it might be a fluke. Still nothing looked good. No bread-and-cheese-based appetizer wanted to be my friend. The two full columns of various pizza varietals all read the same.
The words “crust,” “cheese,” and “mozarrella” were grating instead of poetic. Even the salads sounded somehow pizza-esque.
Finally I settled on a calzone with no marinara sauce or traditional pizza toppings. It arrived. I stared at its lovely egg-washed, perfectly brown top. And wasn’t sure what to do. All I really wanted was to ask for a box.
I poked at it, talked over it, and tried to ignore it. But in the end, I’m still a sucker for pizza. So I ate half. Took the rest home. And there the box sits, still in the fridge. Taunting me…waiting for me to cave in. Waiting for me to return to my all-American roots.
I think it might have to wait a while.
Every day another story -
Sofie
PS – More fun pizza facts can be found here.
