I’ve had pizza on my mind a lot lately. Cravings. Running through my mental Rolodex, imagining the sauce from this local joint, the crust from that one. Promising myself a slice or two or three as a treat to myself at the end of the week. I don’t even like pizza all that much. It’s fine, I certainly won’t complain about being offered one, but I’ve never understood the obsession over it. A well-executed pie can be a wonderful thing, but no more so than any other food. Pizza, certainly, is not the stuff dreams are made of.