Dear Mike,
Tonight we made pizzas from scratch for the first time. Without you to guide us.
Sorry it has taken us this long to do this, but we have not felt ready until now.
(Indeed, treading in this space feels like entering a sacred place.)
For all the things I know how to cook, I always deferred pizza-making to you. There never seemed a point to me learning how, since you did it so well.
And this made me think about all the ways we complemented each other.
How we were good at different things. How, together, we made a good team.
More than this, though, I think we simply trusted each other implicitly. I trusted that, whatever you set out to do, you would do it well. Exceedingly well, in fact, that there was no need for me to learn how to do it. You had it covered.
(And you were the same with me.)
Trusting you this way offered me a tremendous amount of comfort. It gave me the opportunity to rest. To not worry. To set my attention on other matters. (What a gift you had been to me!)
And so it was with making pizza. You did it so well, there was no point in me ever learning this skill. There was no point in me trying to make improvements to your recipe either, so I never even bothered looking at it while you were still with us. (Okay, so you gathered my feedback often to make adjustments, but this is not the same as a direct contribution.)
And so it is that I have never looked at your recipe until now.
Claire and I read through it — hand-written scribbles and all — and tried to figure out if you meant fluid ounces or ounces in weight when measuring water.
It might seem straightforward to others, but we debated how sometimes you did things outside the norm.
She tried to remember if she’d ever seen you use a measuring cup to measure water or if you stuck exclusively with the scale.
We remembered that you were usually consistent in your methods…
…But not always.
And this made us laugh for all the ways that you were quirkily you.
And man, have we loved that about you!
Predictable in most things… but not always.
(You kept us on our toes.)
So we did our best, tasting the sauce as we seasoned it. Trying to recall how your sauce tasted.
We fretted that you did not write down the measurement for salt. (Why?!)
(Okay, so I know why. You would have reasoned that how much salt would depend on how the tomatoes taste. But still…)
I approached salting the sauce with trepidation, feeling a bit of pressure for getting it “right”. Also, with a cook’s knowledge (from experience) that you can always add salt, but never remove it.
So I ended up leaving the sauce-making to Claire. Who, unlike me, bravely set about this task. And delighted in it (I suspect, for all the memories this task invokes).
She pointed out that you never really measured the garlic, so this, too, we’d have to “guesstimate”.
We each took little tastes as she worked. You would have been so proud of her. Because we all believe she nailed it.
Her taking over this task freed me up to figure out the dough. And while I do believe I got the recipe right, judging from the dough’s elasticity, I was daunted by the task of shaping it.
How is it that, having been with you for 23 years of my life, I had never handled pizza dough before? I know the answer, but still I could kick myself for never asking you to teach me.
(You had taught me so many other things!)
The girls recalled playing with dough while you made pizza, but nothing about having been instructed on shaping pizza crust.
It was something you did quickly and efficiently. And without fanfare. Otherwise, I am convinced we would have watched more closely.
So I found videos on YouTube and tried my best.
And for the time-being, I declared my efforts “good enough”, even as I observed that I didn’t get the crust quite as thin as you made it.
There were so many questions as we made our pizzas because there were so many things you didn’t write down:
How much sauce?
For that matter, how much cheese? (Claire recalled that you weighed it, but none of us knew the measurement. So we eyeballed it.)
We recalled how hot you kept the oven because this task was one you always delegated to one of us.
We knew from observation that you sprinkled the pan with cornmeal to keep the dough from sticking and that you placed the pan directly on the pizza stone…
…but that you removed the pizza from the pan after a while and cooked it directly on the stone for the rest of its cooking time.
But did you write down the timeframes?
Sadly, no.
So we (I) nervously guessed.
I also had to figure out the best way to free the pizza from the pan without tearing it. (And I know that I did it differently because I used more tools than you did!)
The first pizza was cooked through, but lacked the just-right crispness of yours.
So I modified the cooking times for the next one and got it closer, but still not quite right.
But you know what?
It didn’t matter. We enjoyed them tremendously.
For the nervous anticipation in making them. For the memories of you. The little anecdotes the girls had of you making pizza.
For the familiarity of the flavors. For having nailed these, even if I hadn’t gotten them cooked “right”.
For the echoes of love that we had felt over the years of you making us pizzas.
Indeed, while I carry some regret in my heart for not having you teach me your pizza Jedi tricks, I am more filled with gratitude for the ways you loved us through the making of pizzas.
I know I complained (more than once) that I was sick of pizza. (Pizza every week? I thought this was excessive.)
I know I sometimes took your efforts for granted, but it was never lost on me that you did it all with so much pride and a specific desire to delight us.
I hope that you know that you did. And I hope that I told you this enough. Because I know that I praised your efforts more often than I complained. (And I truly hope that you perceived this to be case. I know that complaints sometimes sound louder than praise.)
Human nature is to sometimes grow weary even of good things.
Case in point: Do you remember the time you insisted on getting chicken from KFC because, according to you, you were “tired of eating so well all the time”?
So I know you occasionally enjoyed “junky” dinners.
Just as I sometimes enjoyed pizza-free weeks.
But your pizza legacy has always been the stuff of legend in this household. We spoke of it often. Within your earshot.
We spoke frequently about how no one made them better.
We still do.
And we joked about how when you sometimes flubbed one (as when you tear a hole in the pizza as you removed it from the pan midway through its cook time), it was due to some nervousness from making it for me.
True or false, it seemed a funny excuse. Even a loving one.
Although you sometimes worried that it disappointed or offended me.
Dearest, who knew that your pizza-making for this family spoke so much about our dynamics? How so much feeling and intention were baked into the act of making a “simple” meal?
All I know is, nothing in recent memory has made us feel simultaneously closer to you and to each other than trying to recreate this meal. Not even the NYC trip you wanted to take us on.
Because this was something you did regularly. And with great care. Something you strived to perfect out of your love for us. And love of pizza, of course. (I am curious: which was greater? 😀)
Tonight has reminded us to be grateful to you. And for you.
And just so you know, we all agreed: We will continue pursuing pizza perfection in our efforts to honor your memory.
We love you so much.
XOX
P.S.
The dog perked up when she smelled the pizzas. I think she was reminded of you, too. You are so missed, but you already knew that.
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