Somewhere in the middle of the last century, pizza became a staple in American life. (This is on my mind because it is 4 AM, and I'm up and about, enjoying a slice of a cold, leftover Italian pie.) Our dad many times described the first time pizza came into his life. He was on a small ship in the Pacific during World War II in the 1940s, among men from many parts of the United States. One of the cooks on board was from the Northeast, of Italian heritage. As a treat sometimes, this cook would roll out a pie crust, spoon some canned tomato sauce on it with some grated canned cheese on top, and bake it in the oven. Voila, presto! Pizza! It was nothing like what the cook had at home, but to the guys on the ship, many who had never heard of pizza, it was an unscheduled treat.

I first had pizza in the mid-1960s. Unfamiliar with the taste of oregano, I ate little of the pie my folks brought home from Shaky's Pizza, an early franchise. As I grew older, and more familiar with the spices, I became a fan too. Ordering pizza from one of the many chains - Pizza Hut, Pizza Inn, Domino's, Mr. Gatti's, Little Caesar's, Marco's - has been integral to young adult life, in college or hanging out with coworkers. If you have no transportation, it can be delivered to your door. It's a way to survive in America without knowing yet much about cooking. Bread, cheese, tomato sauce. (Some versions leave out the sauce.) You can add meat and veggies - mine just now had black olives, mushrooms, and tomatoes - it's a whole food in the hand. Leftovers in the fridge (or on the counter), good at supper or breakfast, don't last very long.

Then there is the occasional pizza pie, with special crust and a selection of finer cheeses and fresh fillings, that makes your eyes tear up with joy.