Of Pizzas and Memories

Of Pizza and Memories

(On the left is my sister Zoey. She always manages to get the most toppings on her pizza and it always turns out delicious! On the right is my awesome mom)

The dough became soft and supple as I kneaded it, sprinkling flour on it now and then. In my head I could hear the words my mother spoke when I was just old enough to reach the counter if I stood on a bucket, “That’s right, fold it, push it, fold and push. Now turn it like this, and fold it, and push it. Keep going, it takes a lot of work but you can do it.” As I roll out the dough I smile and remember my dad wearing his big white apron and tossing dough high over his head. I never was able to toss my dough, but I take great pride in being able to roll a perfect circle every time. Homemade pizza, it plays an important part in our family. Every Christmas Eve our too large family gathers in my mother’s too small kitchen and we create pizzas with a passion. Children smile with pride as they are trusted and allowed to make their very own pizza with what ever they want on it, and I’ve yet to see a child put vegetables on one. I don’t wait for Christmas to make homemade pizzas, though. We make pizza in our own home almost every week and it always makes me smile as the actions and smells involved bring to mind so very many lovely memories. But something strange is happening tonight. The joy has somehow been tampered with. As I sprinkle the aromatic garlic salt on my husband’s extra pepperoni with black olives, red onions, and extra cheese, pizza my mouth doesn’t wet with saliva. And rather than take that extra sniff of pleasure when crushing the oregano in my hand, I turn my head with close to a heave in my stomach. What has come over me? In a bit of a confused daze I prepare myself a tomato and lettuce sandwich while the pizzas finish baking. Of course, as we all sit to eat, the family expresses great concern over the fact that I am forgoing pizza and eating a simple sandwich.
“Honey, why aren’t you having pizza with the rest of us?”
“I don’t know. For some reason pizza just doesn’t sound good to me at all.”
Suddenly I drop my sandwich, stare at my husband, my jaw hanging a little limply.
“Honey,” I say in a quite voice, “I think I must be pregnant.”

And I was right. Now I have a new favorite memory to add to the making of homemade pizzas. (How's that for a surprise ending?)