Thursday, April 29, 2010
At least once a week, we could count on mom to prepare homemade pizza. After we helped roll out the floured dough for our meal, we were allowed to spread the tomato sauce as mom added the necessary seasonings. The highlight was adding layers of cheese followed by pulling pieces off of a roll of breakfast sausage to achieve our meat topping. As we added the mushrooms, I could never resist eating them straight from the can between placing them on top of the pizza.
I didn’t think there was anything unique about my mom’s pizza back then. Looking back now, I recall so much more. Tomatoes from the garden’s harvest filled buckets and covered counters as they waited to join those boiling on the stove. The aroma left me craving the moment I could satisfy my taste buds with Mom’s homemade sauce.
The work that I now know goes into that kind of task makes me question the reasoning behind the amount of effort involved. Mom’s homemade sauce spoke of her love for my dad as she supported his hobby of gardening and enjoying the harvest. Allowing us to assist in the preparation of the meal was one way she spoke love to her children as well.
In our family, take-out pizza will never measure up to Mom’s. As I watch my children’s excitement in helping create this tradition handed down from my childhood, I am convinced that the memories created help leave the lasting savor in my mouth.