Bread, handmade that morning, rising as it bakes in a hot, open oven.
Oregano warming within gooey, bubbling red sauce.
Pizza is an iconic food for many of us. A true comfort food. A convenience food. A football and beer or picnic-by-the-pool food.
Growing up, we often visited my father's family home. We fought back car sickness as our Chevrolet bounced and wound over and through the nearby mountains, finally arriving at the tiny Ohio town. My sister and I would smoosh our noses against the windows, striving to be the first to see the sights we had deemed icons of this little place.
The home with a few too many plastic lawn animals.
The bumpy road still paved with bricks.
The pizza place.
We always wanted dinner from the pizza place. The moment we arrived, we hurriedly crunched our battered sneakers on the gravel driveway, bounded up the steps, and into our great aunt's home, where our question would explode from pent-up anticipation...
"When are we getting pizza?!?"
(This question was always closely followed by "what are we having for breakfast?", another must-have treat for each and every visit.)
Despite having the world's most amazing cook at our disposal, despite her stairwell lined with baked goodies, we had to taste that homemade real pizza goodness. Each and every time. Hometown Tennessee pizza from the national chain restaurant could not hold a candle to the hand-tossed, family made deliciousness from this small ethnically-diverse Midwest town. It was the ultimate definition of yum.
And now I am hungry.
I found a photo of the exact pizza place on Flickr. I was unable to contact the photographer, but check it out HERE. He captures the precise feeling of small Ohio towns with his imagery of signs, vintage items, and abandoned buildings.
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This week's prompt: Describe a smell that brings back memories.
