Turkey, Stuffing, Mashed potatoes… For this Thanksgiving essay I’m going to talk about—
Pizza.
People love pizza, including other authors I subscribe to on Substack.
shares an interview with the owner of a famous pizza place in Phoenix. I had heard of this place but because Phoenix isn’t on my bucket list of travel places, I must live vicariously. talks about his love for BBQ chicken pizza in this saucy piece.I used to love BBQ chicken pizza back when I could digest dairy and gluten.
Hubby-Jeffrey is a traditionalist and lucky to be able to consume pepperoni pizza. We found a close alternative for me. A local chain makes a pizza I can eat. They offer BBQ ground beef with fake cheese and a cardboard crust. Because it’s so difficult to find a decent gluten free pizza crust, I lowered my standards. The cardboard is delightful until it’s like a rock in my stomach the next morning.
And then we went to Italy.
F-k me.
The gluten free crust was divine, and I didn’t need fake cheese or even a red sauce. Salami, olives, and mushrooms placed in perfect disarray on a homemade crust washed over in olive oil made me swoon. But the story doesn’t end there. For the first week of our trip, I eased into bites of Jeffrey’s glutinous dishes like the homemade Pici spaghetti— his new favorite and not on any menu in the states, and the traditional breakfast, Apricot Crostada. I had heard that Celiacs plus us gluten and lactose challenged folks are able to indulge in a dairy, bready frenzy whilst in Italy so I nibbled here and there. Unfortunately, my bowels were not happy, but I refused to believe it was because of Italian wheat and cows.
“There was probably bacteria in that airport salad,” I said.
“That was like a week ago,” said Jeffrey.
“And?…”
There’s a pizza rule in Italy
You eat the entire pizza pie on your own. No one shares. It’s a meal. It’s an unsaid law.
Jeffrey and I ended our trip in Rome and went to a restaurant that was Celiac approved. I knew the crust would be good. And it was.
We sat next to a young couple and chatted with them. They were newlyweds from Montana. I stopped myself from asking, “Have you watched Yellowstone*?” That’s probably the only thing people say to them. Or, “Who’s watching the cows while you’re gone?” Instead, I said, “We were in Montana years ago. Gorgeous. Hope we can visit again.” Then there was that awkward silence when there’s nothing else to say and your food is getting cold. “Enjoy the rest of your honeymoon.” But they’re still sitting next to you so now you avoid eye contact.
I took another bite then stopped. There was a noise across the table. Jeffrey was “ooing” and “ahhing” with every bite. He usually keeps those yummy sounds to himself out of consideration for my food intolerances. I watched him with envy. The crunch sound was a symphony, and the cheese had the perfect amount of ooze.
“Stop,” I said.
“What?”
“You’re making yummy sounds like in Young Frankenstein.”
“I am? I didn’t notice.”
“It’s that good, huh?”
“Yyyyeeeaahhhh,” he said meekly.
I took a deep breath, groaned, then demanded, “I need a bite, now. I’m in friggin Italy.”
“Really? You want to try it? When in Rome...”
“You did not just say that.”
Jeffrey tore off a piece for me. I anticipated the airy crust with speckled burn marks from the authentic pizza oven, probably built by — the Romans. The cheese held up the salami in a perfect ballet. I opened my mouth and Jeffrey placed it on my tongue. The act alone made me squirm.
The first taste on my tongue was a shock of pleasure. When my mouth closed in on the combination there was a burst of flavor mixed with a perfect crunch.
I became Meg Ryan in the deli scene in the movie, When Harry Met Sally. I grasped the sides of the table and couldn’t contain my pleasure.
“Oh my god. This is— this is—"
I couldn’t finish my sentence as the pizza melted between my teeth.
“I know. Right?” Jeffrey said.
The young couple peered over their menus at us.
“How can you be so calm about this?” I said under breath.
Jeffrey shrugged.
If I wasn’t having an orgasm over this pizza I would have marveled over Jeffrey’s composed demeanor. He could have been a poker champion. Hell, I didn’t even know he had a crush on me when we first met.
I chewed on the tiny piece for a full minute, wanting to give my tastebuds a last hurrah before our flight home.
“I can’t believe this flavor.” I wanted to cry— I had Mozart’s Four Seasons in my mouth. “Is it because I’ve been eating cardboard and real food is just— just— real?”
“No,” Jeffrey said definitively. “There is nothing else on this planet that compares to an Italian pizza.” Jeffrey was as serious as a doctor with a grim diagnosis.
The young couple on their honeymoon were staring, drooling, now waiting for their own gastronomic experience.
I gave them an expression that said— if you two want wicked good sex tonight order this pizza. And I said all that with a nod and pointing at the dish.
The Boy From Bologna
My daughter’s fiancé is from Bologna. During their 10 year courtship (they were High School sweethearts) Jeffrey and I would gently mock Ercole for being so pasta, pizza and coffee picky in America. (Ercole is not his real name. He’s also privacy picky.)
“I don’t like-eh.” Or, “It’s not Al dente.” Or, “This is not a Ragu.”
Jeffrey and I would privately be annoyed at Ercole’s grumbles. “What’s the fuss?... He’s so picky… How can he not like my brown rice pasta?... But, he makes our daughter happy.”
After eating pizza and pasta in Italy hubby and I apologized profusely to Ercole.
“We had no idea… We are so sorry… Thank u for putting up with my gluten free pasta all these years… We get it now.”
Ever gracious, Ercole nodded. He seemed relieved.
Back home Jeffrey and I made a pizza crust using 00 Italian flour. It has less gluten than regular flour made here. (And guess where you can buy 00 flour? Amazon. Ugh.)
The pizza made with 00 flour was delicious. Sadly, I got a stomachache. I had a fantastic gluten free pizza in Italy so my search begins for the perfect recipe I can try at home.
This Thanksgiving, I am so grateful that Jeffrey, Ercole and my kids are respectful of my intolerances.
1. What are you thankful for? Yes, I just asked that. I know you’re not ten. I’m genuinely interested.
2. Do you like pizza?
3. Have you been to Italy? NY? Phoenix?
*For the two of you who never heard of Yellowstone— it’s not only a National Park in Montana but a very popular American TV series starring Kevin Costner.
First and foremost Happy Thanksgiving to you and your whole family.
What can we learn from Italy and France (great cuisine)? To me a passion for what nourishes us and a commitment to make it so. The willingness to REGULATE the human condition leading to our betterment. Guardrails guide us toward the well-earned truth. Ask any rube how they feel about government regulation and if they are middle-class or above they will almost certainly embrace the wild west of living and assume let the trial and error of the market fix stuff. The road to ruin and the need to read font size 4 food labels. The Italians and French have had the centuries earned great sense to guide us toward truth, safety and very tasty. The definition of gluten free, champagne, parmigiano reggiano, olive oil are all the same problem that sensible and clear regulation has solved for CENTURIES. If you do not regulate you will get cottage cheese dyed and formulated to trick you. I loved the menu snapshot for this reason. When you eat French or Italian food prepared authentically it is the very basic ingredients done right! Loved the photo in the Dolomitis! I hope that one day soon Americans will embrace a different food system from our buyer beware mentality.
Questions: 1. Looking backward and forward I am relieved I've had the sense to treat encounters with others as a chance for friendship. It is the very best of life to gain something new or share a little bit of ourselves in the most unlikely places, even Substack. 2. Yes 3. Yes cubed
I still puzzle over Americans calling pizza a "pie". It's pizza. 😁