Recently the Power Ball lottery skyrocketed to a few hundred million dollars. A friend of mine at work reminded me to stop a buy a ticket on the way home. I didn’t.
Part of the reason I skipped buying a lottery ticket was that I’m too lazy to park at the Shop N Save, go inside, color in a bunch of tiny circles, wait in line and pay for a ticket. Yes, I am THAT lazy.
Another reason I didn’t get a ticket was because I knew that I had a better chance of getting struck by lightening than I did of winning the lottery. But the biggest reason I didn’t buy a lottery ticket is because I couldn’t figure out what I would do with all that money.
Would I fly around the world in my private jet? Would I buy a beach house in Beverly Hills? Or would I spend my days drinking mimosas on a secluded tropical island?
In the spirit of lottery fever, I tried to imagine sunning myself on the deck of my private yacht. I pictured my personal servants, Chad and Arturo, feeding me truffles and caviar served on Royal Copenhagen bone china. In this fantasy, Chad and Arturo were wearing swim trunks and black bow ties. Things were getting interesting.
Unfortunately, I didn’t get too far into the dream when a two year old toddled over to me and screamed “Mommy I need to use the potty.” At this point, Chad and Arturo scowled and jumped overboard. Then the bubble burst and I was back in my suburban living room surrounded by Legos.
When I ponder the lives of excessively rich people, like Paris Hilton or Donald Trump, the thoughts that come to mind are late night parties, extravagant and exotic meals, expensive clothes and jewelry, fast cars, personal airplanes and big boats.
It sounds nice, in theory. But then I think about all of the things I would miss once I was wealthy. Despite all the jet setting and elbow rubbing, I would probably continue to crave the benefits of being a regular Joe.
For one thing, I’d miss having a private life that was really private. I’d hate to wake up after a night on the town and discover that my late night indiscretions were being covered by CNN. I’d also miss wearing my sweat pants and an old T-shirt to run to the market on Saturday morning without fear of appearing in the “Fashion Don’t” section of People magazine.
But most of all, I’d miss pizza.
One of my favorite foods is a greasy east coast pizza with a bubbly crust, slathered with tomato sauce and finished with mounds of mozzarella. The dish I’m talking about is best when served by the slice from a street side shop that, despite only having 3 rickety tables, has a line out the door on Friday’s during lent.
If the man popping the pie into the oven is wearing a white t-shirt stained with spaghetti sauce and answers to the name of Sal or Gino, it’s even better. If he also speaks fluent Italian, it’s Nirvana.
Basically, I’m talking about a good eats kind of dish that can only be found at a hole in the wall. It’s the kind you’ll never find on the menu at Chez Nose-In-The Air or on the French Riviera. It’s the kind of dish that reminds you of hot summer nights sitting around the dinner table with Mom, Dad and your sisters and fighting over the last slice of pepperoni. It’s the kind of dish that Paris and the Donald probably never get to eat.
Now, I know what you are thinking. If I win the Power Ball, I can buy my own chain of pizza restaurants. Or I could have a pie flown in on a helicopter and delivered to my yacht.
I’ve already considered that possibility.
The problem is, if I used my affluence to acquire Sal’s pizza joint, Sal would insist I send him to culinary school. And before I could say “parmigiano”, he and Gino would be dressing my pies with fancy ingredients like lemon grass and brie. Then Chad and Arturo would insist on serving it as an amuse-bouche (small bite) on a silver platter. They would demand that I use a fork.
No thank you.
When I eat pizza, I want to pull it out of a cardboard box and plop in onto a paper plate. I want to watch the molten mozzarella melt and drip over the crust. I want to fold the crust into pizza sandwich. And when I take the first bite, I want to taste the sweet flavor of marinara unspoiled by caramelized capers or poached pears.
So next week when you are stopping at the Gas N Go to buy your lottery tickets look for me at the pizza joint next door. I’ll be ordering the large pie with mushrooms and sausage to go. If your ticket doesn't hit, feel free to join me for a slice.
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