Pizza Hut

Let’s set the scene: a plastic cup. Prepackaged ranch. The kind that doesn’t need to be refrigerated, which tells you everything you need to know before you even open it.

It tasted sour. Not in a “something went wrong” way, but in a “this is just what this is” way. Shelf-stable ranch has a particular flavor profile, and it is not a good one. If you’ve ever had the ranch at Arby’s (oddly similar), you already know what I’m talking about. Same energy. Same sadness.

The pizza wasn’t doing much either, so the ranch didn’t have a great partner to work with.

But the breadsticks. The breadsticks were doing something for me. One bite and I was back in the Book It era, racking up reading points for a personal pan pizza like it was my full time job. I used to go to the Pizza Hut buffet with my grandma. She’d pick me up from school, we’d have lunch, and then I’d bring candy back to my class (my classroom loved it). It was truly a different time. A time when school lunch apparently lasted long enough to leave, drive somewhere, eat, and still make it back. What was happening? Did my grandma just let me miss school because aren’t school lunches like twenty minutes? Someone look into this.

Anyway. The ranch is a miss. The pizza is a miss. The breadsticks are nostalgia in butter form and the only reason I have any warmth in my heart for this visit.