By now I've made it very clear how much I love to make pizza at home, but I haven't mentioned that some of my clearest food memories from childhood took place in a suburban Chicago pizza parlor.
Mid-Michigan does not have a strong pizza legacy. When my parents ordered our regular Friday-night pie, it came from one of the chains and I liked it just fine. But when we went to visit my Aunt Karen in Aurora, IL, we got the real deal: gooey, tangy, crispy-on-the-edges Chicago deep dish. I would while away the 90 or so minutes it took to prepare our pizza playing Centipede while the adults drank draft beers. I have yet to feel the same level of elation in a restaurant as when my parents finally called me to table, not even when I got seated after waiting two hours for a bar table at Babbo.
My beautiful aunt passed away last weekend. She was far too young and, aside from her robust appreciation for pizza, beer, and other Chicago specialties, took excellent care of her health. I thought I still had many more years to share these memories with her. It's not fair.
It saddens me that I'm not able to be at her funeral today, but I thank you for letting me share with you. Now go share a slice with someone you love.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
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2 comments:
Hi Kat. Brad B told me to read your blog because I have a cookin blog too. And as a born and raised Chicagolander, I completely agree that there's nothing quite as magically delicious (or as brutal on stomach) as real Chicago deep dish. Mmm.
I'm sorry to hear about your aunt! I live in Northwest Indiana, 30 minutes from Chicago, I've tried to replicate the deep dish, but it's a work in progress and I'm sure will never taste as good as the one from the restaurant.
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