Summers spent at my grandmother’s in Italy
meant waking to the smell of her tomato sauce,
wonderful hours in the kitchen,
full of laughs and instruction,
mounds of flour, like Vesuvius,
only topped with eggs,
and rolling the gnocchi with fork tines,
and stretching the pizza dough into the pans,
with messy fingers, smiles, and anticipation.
As I look back now, I realize that
before I learned to cook eggs
I knew how to make Nonna’s pizza.

Pizza is youth.
We are all teenagers when the pizza arrives.
It is smiles; it is laughter; it is fun.
It’s dinner before Friday night lights,
or after Saturday soccer games.
It’s young lovers’ movie night,
and old lovers’ night out.
It’s birthday parties, and youth groups,
it’s cramming for finals, and endless summer days.
Tomorrow, today is yesterday.
Oops, the pizza’s here!
Pizza is memories, too.
And it’s not really about us.
It’s about you!