Author: Suzanne Scacca

In Pursuit of Pizza Perfection

My love for food can oftentimes be described as “obsessive.”  If someone mentions a cheesesteak, if I’m reminded of summer days eating hot dogs on the Boston Common, or if Jason Sudeikis talks to me through the T.V. about how wonderful Applebee’s is?  You know what I’m going to be eating next! Actually, my boyfriend and I were both craving Applebee's after the onslaught of Jason Sudeikis-voiced commercials and the movie Hall Pass came out that we ended up going to the one right up the street. We won't be tricked like that again. It doesn’t take much to make me hungry.  It does, however, take me a lot to get to that point of obsessive-hungry where I can’t stop talking about it with anyone who will listen. I’ve been without reasonable access to a Friendly’s for about four years, so, naturally, I obsess over how I can get my boyfriend to go to Orlando with me so I can get my hands on a Reese’s Pieces Sundae. I worked at Iron Hill Brewery when I was in college.  I didn’t crave their food after I quit simply because I stared at, smelled it, and consumed it nearly every day for over two years.  Once I left DE though and had no chance of eating it again unless I made the six-hour drive from Boston, I began to crave their nachos.  And Lejon pizza.  And...

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Movie Review: Perfect Sense

If I had to log hours in my real life like I do during those hours belonging to my employer, I could easily rack up 8 to 12 hours of movie-watching time every week.  If I’m on vacation, if I’m sick, or if I’m just having a spectacularly shitty week, I could probably do about 20.  Piece of cake. I always thought it would be awesome to get paid to write, watch movies, and eat:  the perfect trifecta for my life.  I know I do enough of each of them that would equate to a full-time salary! George Costanza knows all about pursuing the perfect trifecta. Perhaps I will succeed where he failed. Now when it comes to the 8 to 12 hours of movie-watching I do each week, my boyfriend is most likely to walk in on me watching something from the horror or sci-fi genre. I can’t help it.  I love being scared (only by movies; real-life fears are nothing to play around with.)  I especially  love the hypothetical and speculative nature of these movies.  I guess you could say I watch these in preparation for what could happen to me some day. Always run out the front door. Avoid going up or down stairs at any cost. Never accept a mission to Mars or any spaceship out investigating another planet that somehow “disappeared.” If a friend, loved one, neighbor,...

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A Peace Offering

There are some perks that come with being raised Italian.  (And for anyone who argues with the ability to raise someone to be Italian, you come talk to me.) You grow up knowing what really good Italian food tastes like.  Pizzelle, cannoli, lasagna, baked ziti with ricotta, pizza, platters of meat and cheese and olives. . .  You name it, we ate it. You can watch Italian-American movies and television shows, and then smile and think, “Yep, that’s how we do it.”  My Irish-American boyfriend says that’s weird, but what can I say?  Some of the stereotypes are true (even on Jersey Shore.) You’ve got plenty of relatives to keep you busy at a family gathering so you never have to talk to the same person more than once, if you don’t want to. Having a big family isn’t always a perk though, especially when all you want is a quiet night in with Interview with the Vampire, a movie that surprisingly turned out to be good despite the casting of then-pretty boy Brad Pitt and “Maverick” Tom Cruise. As an adult, I’m obsessed with movies.  You’d think that’s the sort of thing someone gets into as they get older, but no.  I was that weirdo kid who was in love with movies.  With the introduction of the computer and internet into our home, fuggedaboutit.  I was in full-on movie obsession I-need-to-look-up-everything-there-is-to-know-about-this-actor-and-movie mode from from a...

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Cheese Sticks or Cheese Steak?

There are two people in this world that I credit with saving my life:  Ducky Malloy and Millionaire Pharmacist.  I also give them credit for introducing me to the cheesesteak.  (The life-saving story will have to be for another day; let’s focus on the cheesesteak for now.) Sadly, I don't have a photo of a D'Angelo's cheesesteak. I'll let these real Philly cheesesteaks (hold the cheese whiz, add American cheese, please) stand as the substitute for now. To this day, the two-plus years I worked at CVS/Pharmacy are still my favorite of the way-too-many jobs I’ve held.  I started out as a cashier and rocked that job so hard that I was offered a supervisor position after only a few months.  Unfortunately, my manager didn’t know that I was 16 at the time and so she had to recant the offer and made me the “beauty manager” instead.  (For those of you who know me, go ahead and take a moment to laugh.) The open supervisor position was then filled by Ducky Malloy.  She was a great person to work for:  she had a good work ethic, she was a good influence, and she made me laugh.  Obviously, her real name was not Ducky Malloy.  It’s just that whenever I saw her at the start of my shifts, I’d ask how she was doing and she’d always respond, “Just ducky.”  I asked her what being “ducky” meant and...

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A Sweet and Spicy Discovery

I’ve got really small hands.  Like we’re talking so small that I have to wear children’s gloves. Back in the day, when I had gym teachers forcing me to play sports I was no good at, I struggled to do the single-handed layup in basketball because I couldn’t keep a grip on the ball.  As I got older and started to learn my way around the kitchen, I discovered that it’s important for me to have a really good oven mitt with a sticky pad (or just a good man around the house) because I can’t open a lot of containers on my own. This is my teeny-tiny hand holding my puppy's teeny-tiny paw. I was dining out with my boyfriend a couple months ago when I was given an obnoxiously large cup for my soda.  As I sat there, gripping onto both sides of the cup for dear life, hoping the perspiration wouldn’t slip it out of my hands, I was reminded of an incident from my childhood that didn’t even have to do with my kid-hands.   There’s no arguing I’m a product of my environment:  I love eating and I’ve got a big mouth.  To be honest though, I don’t know that I got either of those traits from my parents.  My extended family, on the other hand, provided enough of both to rub off on me—especially my Uncle Tony. Uncle Tony was pretty well-known on...

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