The point of food styling is to make the food look good — more than good: inviting, delicious, evocative. It should tickle the senses, make your stomach rumble and your mouth water. It should evoke memory, inspire delight, and maybe even hint at what the ingredients are, or how best to serve it.
Pizza Potatoes does none of these things. It is the epitome of anti-styling. It is a snapshot of something that presumably matches the recipe on the back of the card. It is unappetizing to the point of revulsion. It is the runt of the litter, its name a desperate attempt to describe its utility.
The housewife who reaches for this recipe has just come home from work on the subway. Her latchkey kids have left the house a mess and demand her attention to mediate a fight as they whine relentlessly about being hungry. She pours herself a drink, lights a cigarette, and throws a packet each of frozen potatoes, pepperoni, and shredded cheese into a dish, along with a can of tomato soup and some water, and bungs it in the oven. While it bakes, she glances at the bills and tosses them, unopened, onto a pile.
The kids want real pizza, and so does she.
Pizza Potatoes
Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library, 1971