This is a food blog, not a personal blog. Today is an exception.
Well, in a way. After all, food is deeply personal, isn’t it? Would lemonade taste the same without memories of drinking it in the sun as a 7-year-old? In the same vein, I wouldn’t be here writing about food if it hadn’t been for my dad.
Tomorrow would have been his 68th birthday.
We celebrated his 65th.
Three days later, he was diagnosed with lung cancer. Two months and seven days after that, he was dead.
Every Friday night, from the time I can remember until I moved out, we would get pizza. Sometimes we’d rent a movie, sometimes we’d watch old episodes of Kung Fu that he had recorded on tape, and every so often we would just sit and chat. But the pizza was a constant.
Is it any wonder I learned to love it, and that I’m here, on this blog, writing about it every week?
Today, though, I’m not posting a pizza recipe. Today I’d like to have a moment of figurative silence in honor of my dad, his birthday, and his—our—love of pizza.
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