Erin and I were making pizzas for dinner the other day and she said, "Oh, we should use the extra dough to make calzones for lunch tomorrow." And when I replied, all offhand-like, "Sure, that sounds good. I've never had one before," there was this long silence, and I looked over to see Erin staring at me like I had just burst out into a rousing rendition of "Don't Rain On My Parade."

So apparently never having eaten a calzone is kind of strange. And apparently it's extremely strange for someone who spent the bulk of her life living in various New York City apartments, all of which were located approximately ten feet away from a pizza place (or three).

(If we're being totally honest here, I'm not even sure I could have told you what a calzone looks like. I had a vague impression of it being lumpy and bready with...something or another inside, but I think that's also a decent description of a gyro, a.k.a. another thing that I couldn't have described very well even upon pain of death until five minutes ago, when I googled it. And since we're tangentially on the topic of gyros, I also feel that it's important to let you know that up until the age of twelve I confused the word "gyro" with the word "orgy," which means that I had an extremely skewed interpretation of that photo of a woman eating a meat-filled sandwichy-thing that's posted on the door of every Italian to-go place in New York.)