There's something indulgent about cold pizza.
Cold congealed cheese on the tongue backs up against spicy italian sausage, or else peppery pepperoni, or just tart tomato. It lingers on the tongue, all spice and chill, and draws you in deeper, holding the flavors all the longer, despite the compression of the scent that supposedly depresses taste--but somehow doesn't.
Not much like the hot, soft texture of a fresh pizza. The cheese is liquid goo when it's fresh, a pudding-like consistency when mixed with the crispy dough.
But the fresh version lacks the memories, I think, that make the cold pizza refreshing. Who hasn't sat on the sofa on a lazy morning, watching TV and nomming a leftover slice, still lingering on the memories of the friends and company from the night before? There is, too, the delightful naughtiness of the extra five minutes, even on busy workdays, in the morning from time not spent preparing cereal and making sure the milk is back in the fridge. Morning time is such a premium that even one minute is precious, let alone a few. Three extra seconds of staring out at the trees bathed in morning light, wishing you stand in them, and pass by the day--those three seconds stick with you all day, popping out of the desk when you least expect.
Maybe it's just me. But I find that pizza cold is almost preferable to pizza hot. Just shy thereof, I suppose, because day-afters are only slightly less lovely than day-ofs, with all the memories plus quiet, and the only thing lacking is the ability to bring in that one last point you wouldn't have remembered to add anyway. Still, things fresh are better, inherently, than things aged (unless they're supposed to be aged, like beef or wine or cheese); good times are best fresh, and slightly dulled with age, no matter how slight the passage of night.
Cold congealed cheese on the tongue backs up against spicy italian sausage, or else peppery pepperoni, or just tart tomato. It lingers on the tongue, all spice and chill, and draws you in deeper, holding the flavors all the longer, despite the compression of the scent that supposedly depresses taste--but somehow doesn't.
Not much like the hot, soft texture of a fresh pizza. The cheese is liquid goo when it's fresh, a pudding-like consistency when mixed with the crispy dough.
But the fresh version lacks the memories, I think, that make the cold pizza refreshing. Who hasn't sat on the sofa on a lazy morning, watching TV and nomming a leftover slice, still lingering on the memories of the friends and company from the night before? There is, too, the delightful naughtiness of the extra five minutes, even on busy workdays, in the morning from time not spent preparing cereal and making sure the milk is back in the fridge. Morning time is such a premium that even one minute is precious, let alone a few. Three extra seconds of staring out at the trees bathed in morning light, wishing you stand in them, and pass by the day--those three seconds stick with you all day, popping out of the desk when you least expect.
Maybe it's just me. But I find that pizza cold is almost preferable to pizza hot. Just shy thereof, I suppose, because day-afters are only slightly less lovely than day-ofs, with all the memories plus quiet, and the only thing lacking is the ability to bring in that one last point you wouldn't have remembered to add anyway. Still, things fresh are better, inherently, than things aged (unless they're supposed to be aged, like beef or wine or cheese); good times are best fresh, and slightly dulled with age, no matter how slight the passage of night.
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