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Because the conversation drifted that way (with a little nudge here and there, perhaps) – and because @arahant pointed out that we had in fact arrived there through the pizza grove – I found myself drafting odes to that prince of foodstuffs. Oh, all right, it’s a fair cop, it doesn’t take much to start me riffing poetical and, falling among good company (ahem), a couple of parodies were but the work of a minute or three:
O, for a flice triangular! that hath been warmed
A decent while in the earthen oven,
Tasting of sunlit slope and thyme-flowers green,
Good cheese and not the box, and companionable talk!
But not with a beaker of faery wine,
Which twinkles, bubbling, at the brim,
Or else I should slip,
Like old Rip, drifting in to the Pizza Grove,
And fade far away into the forest dim …