Brutal Side of Addiction

The magnetic pull and charming allure of Ohio that has held us in its orbit for almost four weeks has slipped and we've pointed our car west with the intention of fire-barreling our way across the mighty Mississippi river and into the states beyond.

We've happily bounced around the east coast, as far north as New Hampshire and as far east as Chicago - but Ohio, Tallmadge more specifically - has called us back each and every time. The superior hospitality of Kris' family, the quality of the cheesecake and wine, the ease and usability of the laundry facilities and the HD presentation of the NBA playoffs have turned this quaint home in northeastern Ohio into our road-trip-clubhouse. And while I'm certain we've shown our appreciation and gratitude, one more wouldn't hurt - Thanks Andy, Ann. Thank you Francesca, Casey, big Jimmy, lil Jimmy - - the whole clan - thank you once again.

This particular area of the United States (and the real truth of its magnetism) is Luigi's Pizza. Ask anyone whose been. They'll slap you right in the face for reminding them how long they've gone without a slice. They might whimper, it will be sad to watch. But the physical reaction of someone who appreciates this finest quality of pizza will look as it should, as though that person has glimpsed, one topping at a time, the centerpiece of what will be the great cloud-filled cafeteria of heaven. Those HAVE TO BE the only two locations, Akron and Heaven.

Sorry. But I've learned that description of food - exemplary examples of everyday eats - falls horribly short. And because this is a pizza joint (more or less) for me to tell you that their crust is painted by hand with the perfect blend of what must be pixy dust and butter doesn't do it. For me to say that the sauce to cheese and topping ratio is within a one-thousandth of absolute harmony doesn't help you to taste it. For me to wrap words around that red sauce, to attempt to say the word ZING without implying a roller coaster. . .

Hyperbole does it better.

It's good, I mean just way past good and into a different dictionary. I hope this shining endorsement inspires those who've spent their years without it to seek it out. Make a pilgrimage. Share this quiet little italian-memorabilia-filled eatery with the rest of the world. The staff has been there for decades, the kitchen is open until after two on the weekends. In the twelve odd nights we spent in Tallmadge, I'd say that ten were Luigi-infused and because of this I've taken on an extra six pounds in my "pizza region."

I'm sure that after the second slice, there was a meeting of the internal powers that be and the stomach laid forth plans for its first major expansion project since the M&M fueled 1984 season. From that point on, with the help of my salivary glands and a permanent image of pepperoni dancing like Rockettes through my frontal lobe, my body made a concerted effort to get more pizza, get more pizza until it became apparent that I needed help. Krissy intervened.

"I'm not sure we have enough," I said. I was holding the two pizzas in my lap.

"What?"

"I'm not sure we have enough, this isn't going to do it."

"We haven't even left the parking lot yet," she says and turns on the car.

"I know! It's the perfect time to get more of it. We're RIGHT HERE. We'll just have a slice while we wait, it's perfect. Would you like a slice now? I'm having a slice. Would you like a slice? I'm having a slice. No. No napkin. No."

I think she feared I'd eat the tips of my fingers clean off the way those little triangle-shaped morsels disappeared. I may have to jog a large portion of the 1300 miles to Colorado behind the car. Still not sure exactly where we're headed, but they won't have good pizza, I can now and forever more be certain of that.