Saturday, October 14, 2006
Battle of the Cupcake All-Stars
I know this is a really stupid use of time and money for someone who is allergic to wheat, but my daughter's birthday is coming up, and we wanted to have cupcakes rather than deal with cutting and serving a cake. I'm not really familiar with any of the bakeries in town, so I thought we should drive around and do a little taste test.
The only bakery I could think of off the top of my head was Martinos, which is near the corner of Magnolia and Victory, next door to the Valero, here in Burbank. I've never been in there before but my daughter had visited once with her Girl Scout troop when Martinos was over on Olive.
We bought two cupcakes for eighty cents each. One was vanilla with chocolate frosting and one was vanilla with lemon icing and cute little sprinkles. They had a lot of different pastries to chose from, and coffee and drinks and gelato and places to sit and scarf.
Next, we went to Yummy Cupcakes on Magnolia. I had never been in there either but I've noticed them before since they are next door to the Yoga place that I keep thinking about going to.
Yummy Cupcakes looked like a factory assembly line inside. Lots of employees dashing around, mixers going, concrete everything, and a display line of cupcakes behind glass. They had pumpkin seed cupcakes and black forrest cupcakes and all kinds of fancy flavors, and you could buy a spoon of frosting for fifty cents and they were selling tubes of sprinkles but I didn't see how much they were. I was a little surprised because I was expecting a little more effort in the decoration department, not cheesey piped clam shells or anything, but maybe some fondant shapes or something.
Since Yummy Cupcakes was so bare-bones and sold nothing but fairly plain-looking cupcakes, I figured, well, they're not doing anything else so they must really be focusing on making awesome-tasting cupcakes. I bought a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting and a vanilla cupcake with plain green frosting for $2.50 each. I thought that was a little steep for a cupcake, but I don't mind paying for something that tastes good, so I gave them five bucks and left.
Next we went to Cindy's dad's house and the four of us cut the cupcakes into fourths and all tasted each flavor together, discussing the merits of each as we went along.
I rarely eat sugar, so sweets usually just knock me off my ass when I taste them. Sadly, the Yummy Cupcakes would have disappointed me even if they were free. The cream cheese frosting was good, otherwise the cake was bland and dry. The regular frosting was just regular frosting, there was nothing wonderful and magical about it that made it worth a dollar, much less two dollars and fifty cents for one freakin' cupcake.
The Martinos bakery cupcakes were CUPCAKES. The cake was especially good, very moist with a nice texture, not crumby at all. Not that a little crumb would have been bad, but they were so happy being cupcakes that all of the cupcake molecules wanted to stay together.
Almost anyone can make a chocolate cupcake taste good, but if you can make a really good vanilla cupcake, then, well, you are a GOD. I'm not just talking out the side of my ass, I'm a supertaster and vanilla flavoring is something that I'm especially sensitive to.
If you're not familiar with supertasters, our tongues are about as sensitive as a dog's nose. I taste the way a dog smells. No, that doesn't sound right. I mean, I can taste things that are outside the range of the normal human taste bud. I'm not making this up, you can look it up in an encyclopedia or, I don't know, the Internet or something. I cannot stand Hagen Dazs ice cream because it has a horrible chemical taste, brussels sprouts make me weep with pain when they touch my tongue, and coffee is unbearably bitter unless you dump so much sweetener in it that it's not coffee anymore.
So, if you like a good moist cupcake, go to Martinos. I think Yummy Cupcakes is cruel, serving mummified cupcakes without even a decent drink to wash it down.
This isn't over yet, however, I'm going to have to try other cupcakes around LA now, I want to see if overpriced crapcakes are the norm, if for no other reason, I want to see how long Yummy Cupcakes could possibly stay in business.
The only bakery I could think of off the top of my head was Martinos, which is near the corner of Magnolia and Victory, next door to the Valero, here in Burbank. I've never been in there before but my daughter had visited once with her Girl Scout troop when Martinos was over on Olive.
We bought two cupcakes for eighty cents each. One was vanilla with chocolate frosting and one was vanilla with lemon icing and cute little sprinkles. They had a lot of different pastries to chose from, and coffee and drinks and gelato and places to sit and scarf.
Next, we went to Yummy Cupcakes on Magnolia. I had never been in there either but I've noticed them before since they are next door to the Yoga place that I keep thinking about going to.
Yummy Cupcakes looked like a factory assembly line inside. Lots of employees dashing around, mixers going, concrete everything, and a display line of cupcakes behind glass. They had pumpkin seed cupcakes and black forrest cupcakes and all kinds of fancy flavors, and you could buy a spoon of frosting for fifty cents and they were selling tubes of sprinkles but I didn't see how much they were. I was a little surprised because I was expecting a little more effort in the decoration department, not cheesey piped clam shells or anything, but maybe some fondant shapes or something.
Since Yummy Cupcakes was so bare-bones and sold nothing but fairly plain-looking cupcakes, I figured, well, they're not doing anything else so they must really be focusing on making awesome-tasting cupcakes. I bought a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting and a vanilla cupcake with plain green frosting for $2.50 each. I thought that was a little steep for a cupcake, but I don't mind paying for something that tastes good, so I gave them five bucks and left.
Next we went to Cindy's dad's house and the four of us cut the cupcakes into fourths and all tasted each flavor together, discussing the merits of each as we went along.
I rarely eat sugar, so sweets usually just knock me off my ass when I taste them. Sadly, the Yummy Cupcakes would have disappointed me even if they were free. The cream cheese frosting was good, otherwise the cake was bland and dry. The regular frosting was just regular frosting, there was nothing wonderful and magical about it that made it worth a dollar, much less two dollars and fifty cents for one freakin' cupcake.
The Martinos bakery cupcakes were CUPCAKES. The cake was especially good, very moist with a nice texture, not crumby at all. Not that a little crumb would have been bad, but they were so happy being cupcakes that all of the cupcake molecules wanted to stay together.
Almost anyone can make a chocolate cupcake taste good, but if you can make a really good vanilla cupcake, then, well, you are a GOD. I'm not just talking out the side of my ass, I'm a supertaster and vanilla flavoring is something that I'm especially sensitive to.
If you're not familiar with supertasters, our tongues are about as sensitive as a dog's nose. I taste the way a dog smells. No, that doesn't sound right. I mean, I can taste things that are outside the range of the normal human taste bud. I'm not making this up, you can look it up in an encyclopedia or, I don't know, the Internet or something. I cannot stand Hagen Dazs ice cream because it has a horrible chemical taste, brussels sprouts make me weep with pain when they touch my tongue, and coffee is unbearably bitter unless you dump so much sweetener in it that it's not coffee anymore.
So, if you like a good moist cupcake, go to Martinos. I think Yummy Cupcakes is cruel, serving mummified cupcakes without even a decent drink to wash it down.
This isn't over yet, however, I'm going to have to try other cupcakes around LA now, I want to see if overpriced crapcakes are the norm, if for no other reason, I want to see how long Yummy Cupcakes could possibly stay in business.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
What's with the backpack ads?
The same thing happened on my message board!
The Googlebot picked up my last name, Kelty, and decided to post ads for backpacks on my site!
In case you didn't know, the name Kelty is famous for backpacks. This is what I nabbed from the Kelty Backpack site:
In 1952, Dick Kelty, a carpenter, builder, and avid outdoorsman, started making backpacks for his friends in the Sierra Club for 24 bucks a pop. His friends were grateful. These 24-dollar packs revolutionized backpacking, implementing for the first time Kelty's ideas of a hipbelt and lighter aluminum frames. Soon, Kelty and his friends were exploring the Sierra Nevadas with heavy loads, no shoulder pain, going farther, longer, and happier into the wilderness than ever before.
Five years later, Dick Kelty quit his carpentry business to start an outdoor gear company. Staked out in an old garage, he welded aluminum tubes into frames while his wife, Nena, cut, sewed, and fitted the pack bags. Today, Kelty gear promises the same dedication to innovation and getting outdoors that Dick Kelty had forty-eight years ago.
Kelty started as a company making it easier for friends to enjoy the wilderness, and that's what we still do. We just have a few more friends.
About ten years ago, my dad and Dick Kelty were staying at the same hotel in Palm Springs. Neither one of them knew this until Dick was checking out, and the clerk told him that there was another Kelty staying in the hotel. It's not a name you hear all the time, so Dick left his business card with the clerk and asked him to give it to my dad.
Eventually, Dick wound up sending us a great deal of geneological research that his daughter had done. We found no direct relation, but according to a book I read at a Scottish store in Solvang, Kelty was a family name rather than a clan name, so technically, all Keltys are related if you go back far enough. Like, if you go back far enough, we are ALL related to Mitochondrial Eve. It was still interesting reading all of the Kelty research. By the way, Dick Kelty died in Glendale a few years ago.
All I really know about the direct Kelty side of my family is that Grandpa Kelty would talk about his grandpa who came into the United States through Massachusets with his brother. That, and Ginger Rogers is his cousin. That would explain the tap dancing.
So, there you go, the Googlebot picked up my last name and is now trying to sell you backpacks. Next, maybe it will be Candie's shoes?
The Googlebot picked up my last name, Kelty, and decided to post ads for backpacks on my site!
In case you didn't know, the name Kelty is famous for backpacks. This is what I nabbed from the Kelty Backpack site:
In 1952, Dick Kelty, a carpenter, builder, and avid outdoorsman, started making backpacks for his friends in the Sierra Club for 24 bucks a pop. His friends were grateful. These 24-dollar packs revolutionized backpacking, implementing for the first time Kelty's ideas of a hipbelt and lighter aluminum frames. Soon, Kelty and his friends were exploring the Sierra Nevadas with heavy loads, no shoulder pain, going farther, longer, and happier into the wilderness than ever before.
Five years later, Dick Kelty quit his carpentry business to start an outdoor gear company. Staked out in an old garage, he welded aluminum tubes into frames while his wife, Nena, cut, sewed, and fitted the pack bags. Today, Kelty gear promises the same dedication to innovation and getting outdoors that Dick Kelty had forty-eight years ago.
Kelty started as a company making it easier for friends to enjoy the wilderness, and that's what we still do. We just have a few more friends.
About ten years ago, my dad and Dick Kelty were staying at the same hotel in Palm Springs. Neither one of them knew this until Dick was checking out, and the clerk told him that there was another Kelty staying in the hotel. It's not a name you hear all the time, so Dick left his business card with the clerk and asked him to give it to my dad.
Eventually, Dick wound up sending us a great deal of geneological research that his daughter had done. We found no direct relation, but according to a book I read at a Scottish store in Solvang, Kelty was a family name rather than a clan name, so technically, all Keltys are related if you go back far enough. Like, if you go back far enough, we are ALL related to Mitochondrial Eve. It was still interesting reading all of the Kelty research. By the way, Dick Kelty died in Glendale a few years ago.
All I really know about the direct Kelty side of my family is that Grandpa Kelty would talk about his grandpa who came into the United States through Massachusets with his brother. That, and Ginger Rogers is his cousin. That would explain the tap dancing.
So, there you go, the Googlebot picked up my last name and is now trying to sell you backpacks. Next, maybe it will be Candie's shoes?
fashion
(from my site, May 5, 2005)
I'm getting dressed to go meet Rain for coffee. I don't actuallly drink coffee too often (see Brawny Story) but it's more of a description of our social activity, not an inventory of what we're actually drinking. I will drink decaf herbal tea, as I always do. But saying that I'm meeting someone for tea makes me sound 1) English, or B) like a little old lady. I am neither. On top of that, to say "I'm going to meet Rain for tea" sounds like something else, maybe that I'm collecting raindrops for a really natural beverage, or that I've been drinking bongwater.
Going through my clothes as I'm looking for something to wear to meet Rain for, errr, coffee, I found a pair of pants I accidentally bought a while back. You know the ones, the low-rise jeans that threaten to show off your hoohaw. I want to show off my hoohaw even less than other people want to see it. They should really come with a warning label. "Warning, you will randomly flash your ass at strangers when you sit down" would be a good one. I only wear them with a really long shirt. I'm not knocking the people who actually look good in this style of pants, but shouldn't there be a weight limit on these things?
This leads me to a few strongly-held beliefs I have about fashion. First, a really good rule of thumb when shopping for a skirt is not to buy one that is wider than it is long. You would think that was common sense, but we've all seen the belly fat and stretch marks spilling over the tops of all the low-waisted pants like over-filled muffin pans, so obviously common sense isn't always a factor. I keep my unsightly business hidden safely under my Levis, thank you.
There is a Mediterranean restaurant in Pasadena that has the most amazing Sunday brunch. One weekend my friends and I noticed they only bring out the really voluptuous belly dancer for the brunch buffet. She's beautiful and talented, but she really must keep the cost down for the restaurant owners. As soon as I see that belly jiggling my way I always put down my fork. I can barely squash down my buffet guilt as it is, I don't need a visual reminder vibrating in my face.
I can just see Gary and Harry in the kitchen.
"The kabobs are going fast! There is hardly any poached salmon left! Quick, bring out Katya!"
The silent alarm goes off, Katya rushes into her garb as she slides down the pole and quickly takes her place on the floor.
(I don't know that her name is Katya, but I think that's a pretty good name for a belly dancer.)
I would like to explain something to all the Hot Topic shoppers out there. Buying clothes that already have safety pins neatly sewn into them, with pre-made reinforced holes so they don't rip, is the lamest shit in all of creation. It defeats the purpose of wearing safety pins in your clothes at all, and makes a mockery of the hard work of your punk and new wave predecessors. Listen here, sonny boy, back in my day we put our own damn safety pins in our clothes and we liked it.
Since I've dyed my hair red (Rubine by Manic Panic) more people talk to me on the street than they used to, at least now the comments aren't about my boobs anyway. Two men have asked me if it's my natural color, but most people say some variation of "I like the red." When I see another person who has colorful hair we are now immediately obligated under some unwritten rule to stop and talk to each other.
My brother, who has an affinity for tattoos, often stops to talk to other people about their tattoos, so now I know what their conversations are like. Where did you get it, how do you like it, that's some nice work there, look at mine here, I'm thinking of having this done, that sort of thing.
There is one guy I talk to sometimes at the mall. He has a pink mohawk. Our conversations were pretty benign until one day, when we were talking about the endless upkeep, he said "Yeah, it's a lot of work letting people know you're cool."
Excuse me? I thought he was joking, but no, he was serious. I quickly scanned his clothes to check the status of his safety pins. Dying your hair a certain color doesn't make you cool. It doesn't automatically make you uncool. But dying your hair so that other people will know you're cool is defininately uncool.
Hey, it just occured to me. Rain is from New York, I'll have to ask her about the pizza.
I'm getting dressed to go meet Rain for coffee. I don't actuallly drink coffee too often (see Brawny Story) but it's more of a description of our social activity, not an inventory of what we're actually drinking. I will drink decaf herbal tea, as I always do. But saying that I'm meeting someone for tea makes me sound 1) English, or B) like a little old lady. I am neither. On top of that, to say "I'm going to meet Rain for tea" sounds like something else, maybe that I'm collecting raindrops for a really natural beverage, or that I've been drinking bongwater.
Going through my clothes as I'm looking for something to wear to meet Rain for, errr, coffee, I found a pair of pants I accidentally bought a while back. You know the ones, the low-rise jeans that threaten to show off your hoohaw. I want to show off my hoohaw even less than other people want to see it. They should really come with a warning label. "Warning, you will randomly flash your ass at strangers when you sit down" would be a good one. I only wear them with a really long shirt. I'm not knocking the people who actually look good in this style of pants, but shouldn't there be a weight limit on these things?
This leads me to a few strongly-held beliefs I have about fashion. First, a really good rule of thumb when shopping for a skirt is not to buy one that is wider than it is long. You would think that was common sense, but we've all seen the belly fat and stretch marks spilling over the tops of all the low-waisted pants like over-filled muffin pans, so obviously common sense isn't always a factor. I keep my unsightly business hidden safely under my Levis, thank you.
There is a Mediterranean restaurant in Pasadena that has the most amazing Sunday brunch. One weekend my friends and I noticed they only bring out the really voluptuous belly dancer for the brunch buffet. She's beautiful and talented, but she really must keep the cost down for the restaurant owners. As soon as I see that belly jiggling my way I always put down my fork. I can barely squash down my buffet guilt as it is, I don't need a visual reminder vibrating in my face.
I can just see Gary and Harry in the kitchen.
"The kabobs are going fast! There is hardly any poached salmon left! Quick, bring out Katya!"
The silent alarm goes off, Katya rushes into her garb as she slides down the pole and quickly takes her place on the floor.
(I don't know that her name is Katya, but I think that's a pretty good name for a belly dancer.)
I would like to explain something to all the Hot Topic shoppers out there. Buying clothes that already have safety pins neatly sewn into them, with pre-made reinforced holes so they don't rip, is the lamest shit in all of creation. It defeats the purpose of wearing safety pins in your clothes at all, and makes a mockery of the hard work of your punk and new wave predecessors. Listen here, sonny boy, back in my day we put our own damn safety pins in our clothes and we liked it.
Since I've dyed my hair red (Rubine by Manic Panic) more people talk to me on the street than they used to, at least now the comments aren't about my boobs anyway. Two men have asked me if it's my natural color, but most people say some variation of "I like the red." When I see another person who has colorful hair we are now immediately obligated under some unwritten rule to stop and talk to each other.
My brother, who has an affinity for tattoos, often stops to talk to other people about their tattoos, so now I know what their conversations are like. Where did you get it, how do you like it, that's some nice work there, look at mine here, I'm thinking of having this done, that sort of thing.
There is one guy I talk to sometimes at the mall. He has a pink mohawk. Our conversations were pretty benign until one day, when we were talking about the endless upkeep, he said "Yeah, it's a lot of work letting people know you're cool."
Excuse me? I thought he was joking, but no, he was serious. I quickly scanned his clothes to check the status of his safety pins. Dying your hair a certain color doesn't make you cool. It doesn't automatically make you uncool. But dying your hair so that other people will know you're cool is defininately uncool.
Hey, it just occured to me. Rain is from New York, I'll have to ask her about the pizza.
pizza
(from my site, May 1, 2005)
Why I'm awake tonight: Why is the Greek food in Chicago so different from the Greek food in Los Angeles?
And what is the emotional upset about pizza? I get so tired of hearing my out-of-state friends go on about pizza.
"Oh, yeah, Missy? Well you haven't tasted pizza until you've been to (Chicago or NY, depending on where they are from.)
One friend of mine from New Jersey (who was excited on his first visit to LA, by the way, when we were at Taco Bell and a guy named Juan made his burrito) would not stop talking about how superior the pizza is in New York. And what can I say? I've never been to New York, we're not on our way to New York, I don't give a shit and I just want him to shut up. Personally, I like the woodfired stuff at Avanti's in Pasadena but apparently no one wants to hear about this newfangled West Coast crap.
After living in LA for a while he finally found this place downtown that made pizza "Just like they have it in New York" so he dragged me down there at whatever time of night to try it. He was so excited! Staring at me with his mouth open, his eyebrows up, his hands poised in midair as if they are waiting to grab my response as it comes out of my mouth. I took a bite. Whatever. It's a kind of bland and flat, and too moist. Too much cheese.
There is nothing I can say. If I like it we'll have to discuss how much I like it. If I don't like it he's going to spend the rest of his life trying to convince me that I'm wrong. It's fine though, I'm not knocking it, but I sure don't share my friend's enthusiasm.
I nod. "It's good," I say, trying to chew without making the moist ball of dough touch my tongue. Too late, the slimey crust made contact with the inside of my mouth and I gag a little bit. "Ooo, trying to chew too much at once there. Yeah, that was really good."
"Don't you just want to eat here every day?" he asks, digging in.
"I don't know, man, that's kind of a long drive just for pizza," I say.
Wrong answer, just so you know.
Not long after that, another NJ friend ordered me a pizza from Joe Peeps, so I could see what real pizza is like. It was alright. A beam of light didn't shine down from heaven or anything, but it tasted good with lots of Louisiana Hot Sauce.
Later, I met Dearinger, a die-hard Chicagoan. After hearing her go on about Chicago pizza for a couple of years we were finally able to complete this endurance test when I accompanied her to Chicago. We took a taxi to a place called, I forget what it's called, I'm wanting to say Porquoi or Pernod but that wasn't it. Anyway, Amy gave us the name over the phone so I thought we were going out for French and I dressed up. Beer, people screaming at the many TVs, me in a $300 jacket. Got it? Okay.
The pizza was kind of soupy, lots of stuff in it. Sort of like an Italian stew served over bread, fat soaked into the crust. It was okay. On my more recent trip to Chicago I was able to try the deep dish pizza at a variety of restaurants, just to make sure I hadn't gotten ahold of a bad one, or maybe I had too much tequila before. No.
I told one of my Chicago friends, a transplant, that I had pizza for dinner.
"Oh yeah? What place?" he asks immediately. Oh no, has he caught pizza fever already?
"Uh, I don't know, some place that starts with a P," I answer.
"Could it be 'Pizzeria'?" he asks.
"No, I'm not that stupid," I answer. I check the sign later. Pizzeria Oro.
What is it about the freaking pizza that makes people come to LA and drone on about how much better it is at home? Does this have something to do with homesicknesses and yearning for the familiar greasy teat they grew up on? I've never tried to push pizza on anyone, although I'm from Oregon and we're not really known for our pizza. The next time I'm in Chicago if I order chicken and cilantro with goatcheese on a wholewheat crust will I be bludgeoned to death?
Does everyone get so charged up over their food, or do I just hang out with a bunch of proselytizing pizza pushers?
Why I'm awake tonight: Why is the Greek food in Chicago so different from the Greek food in Los Angeles?
And what is the emotional upset about pizza? I get so tired of hearing my out-of-state friends go on about pizza.
"Oh, yeah, Missy? Well you haven't tasted pizza until you've been to (Chicago or NY, depending on where they are from.)
One friend of mine from New Jersey (who was excited on his first visit to LA, by the way, when we were at Taco Bell and a guy named Juan made his burrito) would not stop talking about how superior the pizza is in New York. And what can I say? I've never been to New York, we're not on our way to New York, I don't give a shit and I just want him to shut up. Personally, I like the woodfired stuff at Avanti's in Pasadena but apparently no one wants to hear about this newfangled West Coast crap.
After living in LA for a while he finally found this place downtown that made pizza "Just like they have it in New York" so he dragged me down there at whatever time of night to try it. He was so excited! Staring at me with his mouth open, his eyebrows up, his hands poised in midair as if they are waiting to grab my response as it comes out of my mouth. I took a bite. Whatever. It's a kind of bland and flat, and too moist. Too much cheese.
There is nothing I can say. If I like it we'll have to discuss how much I like it. If I don't like it he's going to spend the rest of his life trying to convince me that I'm wrong. It's fine though, I'm not knocking it, but I sure don't share my friend's enthusiasm.
I nod. "It's good," I say, trying to chew without making the moist ball of dough touch my tongue. Too late, the slimey crust made contact with the inside of my mouth and I gag a little bit. "Ooo, trying to chew too much at once there. Yeah, that was really good."
"Don't you just want to eat here every day?" he asks, digging in.
"I don't know, man, that's kind of a long drive just for pizza," I say.
Wrong answer, just so you know.
Not long after that, another NJ friend ordered me a pizza from Joe Peeps, so I could see what real pizza is like. It was alright. A beam of light didn't shine down from heaven or anything, but it tasted good with lots of Louisiana Hot Sauce.
Later, I met Dearinger, a die-hard Chicagoan. After hearing her go on about Chicago pizza for a couple of years we were finally able to complete this endurance test when I accompanied her to Chicago. We took a taxi to a place called, I forget what it's called, I'm wanting to say Porquoi or Pernod but that wasn't it. Anyway, Amy gave us the name over the phone so I thought we were going out for French and I dressed up. Beer, people screaming at the many TVs, me in a $300 jacket. Got it? Okay.
The pizza was kind of soupy, lots of stuff in it. Sort of like an Italian stew served over bread, fat soaked into the crust. It was okay. On my more recent trip to Chicago I was able to try the deep dish pizza at a variety of restaurants, just to make sure I hadn't gotten ahold of a bad one, or maybe I had too much tequila before. No.
I told one of my Chicago friends, a transplant, that I had pizza for dinner.
"Oh yeah? What place?" he asks immediately. Oh no, has he caught pizza fever already?
"Uh, I don't know, some place that starts with a P," I answer.
"Could it be 'Pizzeria'?" he asks.
"No, I'm not that stupid," I answer. I check the sign later. Pizzeria Oro.
What is it about the freaking pizza that makes people come to LA and drone on about how much better it is at home? Does this have something to do with homesicknesses and yearning for the familiar greasy teat they grew up on? I've never tried to push pizza on anyone, although I'm from Oregon and we're not really known for our pizza. The next time I'm in Chicago if I order chicken and cilantro with goatcheese on a wholewheat crust will I be bludgeoned to death?
Does everyone get so charged up over their food, or do I just hang out with a bunch of proselytizing pizza pushers?
