The other night, well past midnight, I watched with some sadness as a grown man carried a frozen pizza home from the corner gas station. While I sympathize with the occasional craving for shrink-wrapped, cardboard-backed foods, and will even make allowances for those sweaty, roller-grilled, gas station wieners, something about the way the guy palmed the pizza made me think that his fridge probably contained nothing but beer and condiments, and that this was his nightly habit. Did he not realize that in the time it would take to preheat the oven he could have zipped downtown for a fresh-baked slice from... More >>>