I thought I’d share an intimate confession today. I’m going to write about the love affair I’ve had for most of my life. It’s deep and abiding, troublesome and tempting, the makings of a good love story.
I’m going to devote this post to the love of my life, pizza.
I know, I know, everyone loves pizza. But hear me out.
My love affair with pizza goes back a long way. My earliest memories are of going to pick up pizza with my grandpa. We’d stop in at Lovin’ Oven, a mom ‘n’ pop place in my hometown. Grandpa knew the owner so they would gab while the pies came out of the oven. A TV was mounted high in the corner. We must have done this on Saturday nights because because the 7:30 Ohio Lottery Cash Explosion show was on while Grandpa waited and paid. Everyday people anxiously waiting as the numbered ping pong balls vacuumed up out of the tube. I don’t remember the pizza. I just remember being at my grandpa’s side.
When my grandparents bought a vacation cottage business and moved to Vermilion, Ohio, we went to Little Caesar’s and got two pizzas for the price of one. In the dead of winter, I loved accompanying Grandpa to pick up the pies, just the two of us. They would pack both pizzas together on a 12” x 24” long rectangular piece of cardboard and wrap it in paper. I would hold the pizza on my lap on the way home and warm up. I can still feel the pizzas warming up my lap as Grandpa drove us home on the icy, slushy road.
“She eats like a bird.” “She doesn’t like anything but pizza.” “She’s so picky.” I couldn’t stand my grandmother’s cooking so I was labeled picky and difficult early on. My grandpa would buy me a pizza so I wouldn’t go hungry even at Easter and Christmas instead of eating the family dinner. Usually the sons-in-law made their way over to where I was with the pizza. They didn’t like Grandma’s dinner so they thought they’d horn in and eat pizza instead. Most of the time I felt sorry for them and let them have a piece or two but I didn’t like sharing it. Put a pizza in front of me, and I was immediately ravenous and hoarded pieces if someone else came by and wanted some. Sweet, little me turned into Bilbo Baggins when Frodo asked to see the Precious.
We didn’t eat pizza at home. Mom didn’t really like pizza. Sometimes I think she didn’t like things just because Dad liked them. She didn’t care for pizza. For Mexican food. Travel. The few times we did go somewhere for a long weekend, she’d want to just sit at the hotel pool. Dad and I would go out sightseeing and leave her there by herself. Years later, after their divorce and her remarriage, she ate pizza, she ate taco salads, she went on cruises and road trips.
Resentful me, “I thought you didn’t like to travel.”
“No, I just didn’t like to do anything or go anywhere with your dad.”
By my high school years, Mom gave in and started to tolerate some pizza outings. Friday nights, we ordered from Pizza Cutter. She still wasn’t a big fan of pizza, but she needed the night off from making dinner. She worked close to the Stouffer’s factory in Solon, OH. They had a company store where you could stock up on its frozen meals at warehouse prices. I lived on Stouffer’s French bread pizzas.
Once in a great while, the three of us would go out for some pizza, maybe on a day where we drove out to Great Northern Mall. One of our classic stories came from the time we stopped at Pizza Hut. The Hut had a salad bar then. We ordered salad and a pan pizza, enjoying our little night out. Mom and I went to the car while dad stopped at the restroom, then we left for the thirty-five minute drive home. When we arrived, Dad took off his coat and found the bill still in his pocket. We had dined and dashed!
In college, of course we ordered pizza constantly. We favored Papa John’s, the pizza was affordable and they gave you a container of garlic butter to drizzle on your crust. There was a gourmet pizza place but we only ordered from there at special occasions, birthdays and the end of exams. (I had a brief pineapple topping phase but you are supposed to experiment in college.)
During my college internship, I lived on Long Island and enjoyed stopping after work for individual slices of pizza. I was in heaven. For some reason, they never believed in selling pizza by the slice in the Midwest. I remember a particularly delicious roasted vegetable pizza that included breaded eggplant. I was also introduced to white pizza. I had entered my vegetarian phase with gusto.
When G and I moved into our house, we were so busy painting, unpacking, and working that we became frequent customers at the local Little Caesar’s, especially during Hot-N-Ready times. We moved my dad up to Ann Arbor and I became a local caregiver instead of a long distance one, and stopping to pick up that pizza became a regular thing. After a day of work and caregiving or a day of doctor visits, the last thing I wanted to do was make dinner. When we needed to go out, we’d sit and eat pizza at Cottage Inn in downtown Ann Arbor. But mostly it was $5 or $8 for a dinner that we could bring home and curl up with together. A cheap comfort fix. My love and need for pizza started to turn into my version of Linus’ security blanket. Instead of going straight to my heart, it just sort of sat there on my hips.
It was probably a good thing that in San Francisco, pizza was expensive. An occasional splurge was Goat Hill pizza. They used a sourdough crust! Delicious, affordable takeout in San Francisco meant biryani, dumplings, or pho.
Next was what some would call a pizza mecca: Chicago! Everyone who visited requested a stop for deep dish pizza. If G and I ordered one for ourselves, we’d eat pizza for days. I’m getting the vapors just thinking about that.
I remember so many pizzas and purveyors with tenderness.
Thin crust NY or Neapolitan, Sicilian, deep dish, wood fired, coal fired; each have made me happy. That deep dish pizza from Giordano’s. Stops mid-shopping spree with mom for personal pan pizzas at Pizzeria Uno. Detroit style pizza at Buddy’s with G.
Early on, I’d eat the crust. Then during my teens, I’d leave the crust on my plate. Those first pizzas with Grandpa had spicy sausage crumbles. Then we moved on to pepperoni. Half and half pizzas became popular. We’d order half supreme with sausage, pepperoni, and green pepper for the grownups, half olives and pepperoni for me. To this day, you will never find a green pepper in my kitchen. My grandma ruined that for me (I’ll write about that soon in 2023.)
As I matured, so did my pizza tastes. Mushrooms and black olives when I wasn’t eating meat. Pizza Margherita, four cheese, BBQ chicken, Mexican pizza, Greek pizza. A drizzle of pesto. Banana peppers and a shake of hot sauce. Roasted butternut squash and fried sage leaves. Breakfast pizza with bacon and cracked eggs bubbling on top.
My pizza cravings have led to creativity in the kitchen. Garlic bread in the freezer? I turn it into pizza. Pita bread? Pita pizzas. Ciabatta? Naan? English muffins? Pizza. Pizza. Pizza.
My relationship with pizza has evolved from the days it meant alone time with my beloved grandpa. On Saturday nights, we were all together, not working, not cleaning cottages. The only friction was discussing what toppings we all wanted.
Pizza has been a sign of affection and love. Pizza has been dependable and satisfying and it’s hardly ever let me down. At times, that knock at the door was the most anticipated arrival, probably more so than a lot of my dates.
For a while, the convenience of pizza eased pain and brought comfort and relief, even though it was always a temporary respite.
Nowadays, I keep balls of pizza dough in the freezer so that whenever the craving hits, I’m ready. I take my time, let the dough rise, I sauté mushrooms with thyme or caramelize onions. I make the marinara sauce and let it simmer with garlic and bay leaf and basil.
When I assemble the pizza and place it on the piping hot stone in the oven, I feel like I’m giving myself a gift. I’m honoring all the moments with my grandpa, with my mom and dad, separately and together. I’m remembering all of the love. And I can taste it in each slice.
Thanks again for reading! I care about you. Please don’t forget to eat your greens.
I so enjoy reading your posts Kim, and what a lovely way to keep your pizza love alive by making it yourself so intentionally. Of course when you come visit Sinù and me here in Italy we will go on all sorts of pizza escapades!
So beautiful.
P.S. I am yet to learn not to read your substack when I am hungry.