Pizza Pie

Gratitude – Grateful for the Good Stuff – Pizza

Do you remember the first time you ate pizza? Here’s a story about my early experience with pizza.

When I was in first grade, right after Christmas, my mom brought home a Chef-Boy-AR-Dee pizza pie mix. She had purchased it at the local Summers’ Market. She was very excited and proud to introduce her family to this new dish. We had seen pizza pie advertised on television.

Inside the colorful box was a can of real Italian pizza sauce, a smaller can of grated parmesan cheese and a bag with the dry dough ingredients.

Carefully, Mom poured the dry dough mix into a large bowl. Next, she stirred in the correct amount of hot water, gave it a brief stir, and covered the bowl with a plate. The pizza pie dough needed to rise.

While the dough was rising, Mom browned some of our own hamburger and onions.

When the dough had set for about 20 minutes, The dough was spread awfully thin. An experienced bread baker, Mom was able to stretch the dough to the edges of the cookie sheet. Next, she crumbled the browned hamburger over the dough. Sparingly, she drizzled the real Italian pizza sauce from the tin can over the meat. With her metal can opener, she removed the lid from the smaller tin can labeled parmesan cheese. Inside this can, the cheese looked just like dust. Mom evenly sprinkled the powdery cheese over the meat and sauce on the crust.

Carefully, she slid the cookie sheet into the hot oven. We waited for our first pizza pie to bake! Finally, the pizza was ready. The crust was lightly tanned and the sauce was bubbly. The cheese had softened and browned during baking. It still didn’t look like real cheese.

Mom removed the cookie sheet from the oven, and set it on a trivet to cool.

My dad and I were both anxious to try this exotic treat. We even had 7up to drink with our first pizza. Dad fetched the ice cubes from the metal ice cube tray. Yanking quickly on the lever, the released cubes popped up. Dad put 2 cubes in each of our glasses. This was a fancy occasion!

Mom was battling with the cutting and serving of the pizza. It was a little stubborn to cut with a paring knife.

“I think a pizza cutter is what they use in pizza pie places in big cities,” Mom remarked.

Dad and I had never heard of such a thing. Mom kept up on modern kitchen advances.

Pressing mightily, she managed to get the pizza cut into squares. She dished up the servings for each of us.

With fizzy glasses of 7up, individual wooden bowls of ice burg lettuce topped with a dab of bought French dressing, and our plates of pizza, we settled down to our feast.

I tasted the pizza. I thought it was terrible. The crust texture was cardboard. The tomato sauce smelled of the tin can it had come from. The baked cheese was stringy and tasted like a sore throat. One bite was all I could swallow.

I knew better than to fuss.

Silently, Dad took my slice of pizza and finished it.

“This pizza pie is really good!”

Dad used his especially cheerful voice.

Mom finished her pizza without saying a word.

After supper, I carried the dishes to the sink. Mom filled one side with hot, soapy water. Dad went to the living room to watch the news.

Mom wrapped the leftover pizza slices in waxed paper and slid the package into a plastic bread bag she had saved. With a sigh, she shoved the bag towards the back of the middle shelf of the refrigerator.

“I take it you didn’t care for the pizza.”

Mom sounded sad.

She handed me a white dish towel to dry the supper dishes.

“No.”

I shook my head and began drying the glasses.

“Well, at least we tried it.”

Mom continued washing the dishes and I kept drying them.

“Maybe someday, people will have pizza in restaurants around here,” she said thoughtfully.

I thought about this. I tried to imagine a place where they would serve pizza in Fairview or Sabetha or Hiawatha-or even in St. Joe. Who would eat that stuff?

Mom and I finished the dishes, hung the dishtowel over the dish drainer and swept the kitchen floor. We turned off the light and joined Dad in the living room. A commercial for Chef Boy-AR-Dee pizza came on. The commercial family looked happy as they bit into the television pizza pie. I shuddered a little at the memory of that pizza flavor.

“At least we know what it tastes like,” Mom said from her spot on the couch.

“Carol, it’s good to try new things. Mom and I want to be sure you understand what is going on in the modern world. Even eating new kinds of food is a way of learning.”

Dad and Mom always encouraged gaining new information from whatever experiences life offered.

I nodded to show that I understood.

. . .

As time went on, our family acquired a deep appreciation for pizza. Local eateries begin including pizza on the menu. Pizza restaurants sprang up. New foods and flavors of spicy pepperoni, Italian sausage, mozzarella cheese and additional parmesan cheese to sprinkle on the bubbling pizzas were part of the delicious experiences. Soon, friends were sharing recipes for homemade crusts and various toppings. Pizza gained a top spot on our own list of favorites. A fancy pizza cutter appeared in the kitchen gadget drawer, ready to help with the serving of our pizzas.

Over the years, when Mom and I were drinking coffee on friendly afternoons, sometimes we would laugh as we recalled our first sample of that pizza pie. We had prepared Chef-Boy-AR-Dee pizzas along with our own concoctions many times in later years. We agreed that it could have been that our taste buds weren’t yet attuned to the new flavors.

In the big picture, Mom and Dad truly were right. Eating new kinds of food, meeting new people, and welcoming new ideas are all ways of learning. I am grateful to my parents and others over the years who continue to encourage a sense of adventure through new experiences. Some discoveries improve with time as understanding and appreciation increase. Case in point: pizza!