memories are interesting little reminders of life as we knew it, especially juxtaposed within the context of how things are now. with summer disappearing in my rear view mirror and an inexplicably wonderful new road under me on which to travel, i pause to consider what once was and that which will always be.
at the goodwill a few days past, i was rifling through a pile of old cookware, looking for some groovy cast iron skillet stuff when i came across a pizza stone. not something i would ordinarily consider, except that seeing it jarred a memory — a very specific memory — of my summer’s spent with my grandparents in ft lauderdale, florida. my grandfather was a school teacher and had the summer’s off. my grandmother spent her days at a big concrete building downtown and while she worked, my grandfather grocery shopped. going to grocery stores was a pastime of his and as the only scrawny grandchild he had, feeding me became his obsession. although i was happy to eat mustard sandwiches day in and day out (frealz-), he loved to load up the fridge and the freezer with food — all for me. the most common food? pizza. specifically totino’s frozen pizza and always always at least four of every kind: cheese, supreme, pepperoni. i always wondered if there was a sale on this brand of pizza as if i ate one, it seemed that is was always replaced with a least one more, keeping a nice even count. to fancy it up a bit, we always cooked it on a pizza stone. funny. frozen pizza became a gourmet dream when shoved in the oven this way: a shitty 95 cent pizza became, for me, the stuff memories are made of.
my grandfather is in a nursing home now. he cannot shop for food anymore. he cannot do much of anything but remember the way things once were. this makes me both incredibly sad and incredibly happy all at the same time. sad because we will each face some eventual reality such as his. happy because i had him then to buy me pizza, to feed me, to love me. i am lucky that i can share a bit of a pizza-esque tradition with my child, my son. i’m not, um, you know, much of a cook, but i am fortunate enough to live in a town with the best pizza this side of nyc. it’s a little place called home slice. my friends own it, my pals work there and my son loves it. it is not quite a totino’s on a pizza stone in a kitchen in florida, but a memory in the making nonetheless. one day my son will remember the days we spent eating our lunches, our dinners there. one day he will remember, and one day, it will mean so very much.