Cold Pizza 🍕✨🖤

The Slice That Remains: La Última Rebanada

The Overworked One’s Ritual

What You’ll Need:

1 pizza (preferably epic stuffed crust, because all great rituals require a solid foundation)

Black olives (for depth, for mystery, for the unknown forces that guide us)

Onions (for layers, for revelations, for the truths we must peel back one by one)

Roma tomatoes (for warmth, for nostalgia, for the reminder that once, this pizza was fresh)

Spinach (for vitality, for resilience, for the illusion of making a responsible choice)

Pepperoni (for passion, for indulgence, for the fire that burns within but also in your heartburn)

Cheese sticks (for prosperity, for abundance, for the overflow of blessings and dairy-based wealth)

Extra marinara (for second chances, for a return to the source, for those who need more from life)

Extra garlic sauce (for protection, for boldness, for keeping the vampires and regrets at bay)

How to Prepare Your Cold Pizza Feast

Step 1: Retrieve the Pizza

Open the fridge. Squint into the harsh, fluorescent light. Locate the leftover pizza box, buried beneath the questionable Tupperware you swore you’d eat.

If you ordered extra cheese sticks, take a moment to appreciate your past self’s foresight. They knew you’d be too tired to cook today. They were right.

Step 2: Take Inventory

Open the box and assess the situation.

How many slices did you think you had left?

How many slices are actually there?


If the numbers don’t match, someone has betrayed you (or past-you was hungrier than you remember). Either way, accept your reality and move forward.

If you have more slices than expected, congratulations—tonight is your lucky night.

If you have fewer slices, take a moment to reflect on your life choices, then grab a cheese stick and move on.

Step 3: The Great Debate – Cold vs. Warm

You have a choice:

Eat it cold—lean into the exhaustion, the convenience, the raw American experience.

Reheat it—but this requires effort, and let’s be honest, you’re already here.


If you choose warmth, consider:

Microwave (Quick & Questionable) – 30 seconds of heat, plus the risk of molten cheese and a disappointingly soggy crust.

Oven (For the Strong-Willed) – 5-10 minutes at 375°F, if you have the patience of a saint.

Air Fryer (Elite Level Commitment) – The closest you’ll get to “fresh,” but at what cost?

Step 4: Sauce Strategy

If you remembered to order extra garlic sauce or marinara, congratulations—you are living life correctly.

If you didn’t, there’s always regret.

Step 5: Beverage & Enhancement Pairing (Optional, but recommended for full effect)

Cold pizza deserves a proper selection of mood enhancers:

Flat soda – The classic choice. Nostalgic. Reliable. Possibly room temperature.

Room-temp beer – Questionable, but effective.

Water – Who are you trying to impress?

A joint or an edible – Because sometimes, life requires enhancing the experience.

Step 6: Accept Your Fate

Sit down (or stand at the counter like the goblin you are). Take your first bite. Let the cold marinara, stiff cheese, and chewy crust remind you of every questionable food decision you’ve ever made.

Think about cooking a real meal tonight.

Know that you probably won’t.

And that’s okay.

This is America. We are tired.

And cold pizza always understands.

What It Tastes Like

The first bite is unexpected but familiar, a quiet reminder that some things don’t need to be hot to be satisfying.

At first, the cold marinara is the most noticeable—a little tangy, a little sweet, waking up your taste buds in a way that feels oddly refreshing. Then the cheese settles in, slightly firm but still rich, binding everything together.

The crust follows, dense and chewy, offering the kind of comfort that requires no effort. The toppings reveal themselves in layers—pepperoni’s lingering spice, the bite of onion, the briny sharpness of olives. Each one distinct, yet part of the same experience.

And then, the garlic sauce. Buttery, indulgent, unnecessary, and yet—exactly what was needed.

The final taste is a little salty, a little greasy, a little nostalgic. A meal that was never planned but always welcome.

It lingers just long enough to remind you that you made the right choice.

The Traditions That Flavor the Feast

This pizza is a story, one that carries whispers from three corners of my family’s history—not in ancient groves or distant lands, but in the places where hard work, exhaustion, and the promise of something indulgent have shaped generations.

From the Schoolhouses of Ohio: The Search for Spice

My grandmother was a schoolteacher in Ohio, raised in a world of meatloaf, buttered corn, and the occasional adventurous dash of black pepper. But she was always looking for something spicier, something bolder.

When pizza made its way into her life, it wasn’t just food—it was an awakening. Oregano! Garlic! Crushed red pepper flakes that made her eyes water just enough to make her feel alive.

Pizza wasn’t just dinner. It was rebellion. A way to shake off the bland, the ordinary, the expected.

From the Southern Naval Ships: The Taste of Home on Foreign Shores

My grandfather was a sailor from the South—a man used to cornbread, fried fish, and biscuits that could make you weep. When he was deployed overseas, he tried new foods from new lands, but sometimes, he just wanted something simple, something American, something that felt like home.

That’s where pizza came in.

It wasn’t authentic Italian fare—it was Navy galley pizza, diner pizza, bar pizza. It was greasy, simple, a little burnt around the edges. And yet, it reminded him of what he was missing.

He never called it good—but he always ate every bite.

From the Immigrant Families of the Northeast: The First Taste of Fast Food

For my other grandparents, pizza was new, foreign, and a little suspicious. They had grown up on homemade meals, food that took hours, flavors passed down through generations.

And then, in the bustling Northeast, they were handed something that took minutes.

Pizza was cheap, fast, effortless—a meal you didn’t have to prepare, a break from the never-ending work of building a life in a new country.

At first, they weren’t sure about it. Where was the rice? Where was the slow-simmered sauce? But soon, pizza became part of their lives—a Friday night tradition, a quick bite between shifts, a shared meal that didn’t require more than a few dollars and an open mind.

A Tradition of Exhaustion and Comfort

This is not just fast food.
It is not just leftovers.

It is a teacher pushing past the ordinary.
It is a sailor looking for home.
It is an immigrant family embracing the new.

This is the food of the tired, the hardworking, the ones too busy to cook but still craving something good.

This is a tradition woven from the hands of those who came before me.

Conclusion: A Taste of Both Worlds

My two pieces for A Taste of Home represent two parts of my identity—two distinct but inseparable flavors of home.

One, Blueberry Apple Cider, is an eclectic mix of old-world ancestors, spirits from distant places, carrying the weight of traditions, myths, and magic. The ones who whisper in the steam of cider, who linger in the taste of fruit and spice, who wove their wisdom into the rituals I reclaim.

The other, Cold Pizza, is a tribute to my more modern ancestors—those weary transplants from different places and times, who struggled to find their place in this country. The ones who worked too hard, slept too little, and found solace in small joys—a slice of pizza, a moment of stillness, the quiet triumph of getting through another day.

My only hope?

I hope they see me.

I hope they see me casting spells, reading Whitman, smoking joints, listening to Vivaldi, and popping on a good horror movie—exhausted, but content, weary from a long day’s work. I hope they know I am theirs, even now, even here.

And I hope they’re as proud of me as I am of where I come from.

Not my egg and sperm donors, though.

They can completely fuck off.