Pizza Forever: Why I'll Never Trust Anyone Who Says They're Tired of It

When someone tells you they could eat pizza every day, they're either lying or they truly understand something about life that most people don't.

I'm the second kind.

In a world of food snobbery, of foams and reductions and plates decorated like abstract paintings, here's a truth I'll defend to my last breath: Pizza is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

Every morning, in narrow storefronts and basement kitchens, men and women who've never seen the inside of a culinary school work their magic. Their hands, scarred by decades of burns, perform a ritual older than America itself. They're creating something timeless, something perfect in its simplicity, in places that have outlasted every trendy farm-to-table concept that ever opened nearby.

I've driven hours for pizzas that generations of families have perfected. Those corner institutions where the walls are lined with autographed photos - faded shots of politicians who now have streets named after them, entertainers who were somebody when they opened for Sinatra but came in for dinner before headlining at the Warwick Musical Theater on their way to guest spots on The Love Boat. The walls tell the whole story - decades of yellowing newspaper reviews and articles about the place, the neighborhood spots that are the heart of their block, where they know your order before you hit the door, where the booths have hosted first dates and last meals and everything in between.

The food snobs will never understand: that same love extends all the way down the line. The strip mall places that opened when Reagan was president, their windows still decorated with faded "We Deliver" signs in that '80s font nobody uses anymore. The Greek house specials where the owner's kids grew up doing homework at the corner table and now run the register. The gas station pizza kept warm under heat lamps that tastes exactly like it did when you were sixteen and it was the only place open after midnight. That pizza served on paper plates at fourth-grade basketball tournaments? I'm eating it. The $5 Hot-N-Ready? Sign me up. That bowling alley pizza joint that hasn't changed their recipe since Earl Anthony stopped by to sign autographs in '77? They're still rolling perfect games in that kitchen as far as I'm concerned.

The freezer aisle holds its own magic. Stouffer's French Bread pizza and Bagel Bites transformed in the air fryer into the crispy, perfect versions of themselves God always intended them to be. And in your own kitchen, there's the simple pleasure of Thomas's English muffins - because I'm not some philistine - topped with Ragu Pizza Quick sauce and supermarket shredded mozzarella, finished with a shake of dried oregano. Magic happens anywhere, from the most acclaimed pizzeria to the humblest frozen aisle to your own counter.

Pizza love runs deeper than preference - it's memory, it's comfort, it's coming home. Plain cheese is a blank canvas of possibility. Pepperoni transforms everything it touches, each cup charred at the edges like a tiny offering to the pizza gods. Black olives add that perfect salt-bright counterpoint, turning a slice into a meal you could center your day around. And the sauce – let's talk about the sauce. It's not just a condiment; it's the lifeblood, the thing that ties it all together. It's what separates good pizza from the kind of experience that makes you forget about everything else for a moment.

Some people will never understand this obsession. They'll eye my plate with confusion when I order pizza five days straight. They'll suggest salads, propose variety, mention moderation like it's some kind of virtue. They don't see how each day brings a different journey – thick crust on Monday for sustenance, New York-style on Tuesday because some days need to be folded in half, Detroit's caramelized corners on Wednesday when you need something to believe in, a Sicilian Thursday that'll feed you for a week, and maybe, just maybe, a grandma slice to end the week because some traditions deserve to be honored.

The extra sauce people – we know something. We understand the deeper truth. Every extra ladle is a rebellion against restraint, against the idea that more of a good thing can somehow be bad. Each puddle of sauce is a little pool of possibility.

If that makes me a heretic in the church of culinary variety, so be it. I'll be the one at the counter, ordering another slice while others debate the merits of grain bowls and kale smoothies. Maybe that's all any of us are looking for – something real to believe in, something that never disappoints, something that tastes like home even when we're far from wherever home might be. For me, that's pizza. Always has been. Always will be. No apologies, no explanations needed.

Each style carries its own mythology. Detroit style with those perfect crispy edges that remind you some things are worth waiting for. New York slices that fold just right, born of necessity and narrow streets and people who know their own minds. Sicilian squares thick enough to make a meal, because some days you need something substantial to hold onto. They all tell a story about who we are and where we came from, about immigrants and innovation and making something extraordinary out of ordinary ingredients.

This isn't about being a connoisseur or a critic. It's about loving something wholly, completely, without shame or reservation. Stephen Stills had it right - if you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with. Sometimes the best pizza isn't the "best" pizza – it's the one in front of you, the one that satisfies that eternal craving, the one that reminds you why you fell in love with pizza in the first place.

So yes, I could eat pizza every day. I could eat it for lunch and dinner. Plain cheese, pepperoni, olives, extra sauce – these aren't just toppings, they're the building blocks of happiness. In a world full of people trying to convince you that everything needs to be new, different, better, there's something revolutionary about knowing exactly what you love and loving it without reservation. Some people search their whole lives for that kind of certainty. I found mine in a folded slice of heaven, and I'm never letting go.