November 22, 2006
As a child, I quickly learned that cartoons were lying to me, specifically in terms of food. Carrots didn’t crunch for me the way they did for Bugs Bunny, and the pizza I ate wasn’t as — well, gooey, as the stuff the Ninja Turtles received all their crime-fighting energy from.
Cut to last year: I am a freshman at Hamilton, and my friends and I have heard rumors of some clearly magical entity known as The Super Pie. I’m flummoxed to begin with, because I was raised thinking a pie was something filled with fruit or custard and usually served for dessert (likewise, if you asked for “plain,” you’d run the risk of receiving a cheeseless pizza), but I have no idea how a pizza could be “Super.” A better pizza? An uberpizza? A pizza enhanced by the wonders of technology? How did this work?
So we ordered one. An hour later, the pizza guy (you wouldn’t call him a “pie guy,” would you?) arrives, with a box that literally will not fit through the doorway. We are actually afraid to lift the lid, but when we do, we find eight slices of drippy, melty pizza, each as big as my face.
I haven’t actually taken measurements of a slice of a Super Pie, but I’m sure they’re astonishing. The box itself is too big for any trashcan, and once, this year, when we brought the pizza up from the
I realized this year, too, I was such a fan of Super Pies not because they tasted especially good — pizza’s pizza, to a certain extent — but because the texture of the stuff was such that I felt like a Ninja Turtle.
To put a somewhat sentimental spin on this fairly inane entry, we ordered Thanksgiving Super Pies a few days back. Last year, we were scattered around in different dormitories, and only one of my friends was fortunate enough to have his RA schedule a dormitory dinner for Thanksgiving. This year, we took matters into our own hands — and while it may have been much greasier and all around grosser than a real Thanksgiving Dinner, it had the same effect; we all sat around afterwards, nauseous and in need of naps.