It is evenings like these that make my heart smile. I am me, wrapped in memories and knowing that I am who I am, because of so many. As I knead the dough for pizza, my mind brings me back in time. My brother and I holding tight to each one of my Mother's hands as we make our way across Main Street and to DiBernardo's.
This is the place that my Mom worked as a teen. As we walked in, Angelo would shout, "Hey Scrubbo!" to my brother and ruffle his hair. Many times we would walk through to the kitchen where Jenny would be at the stove, over looking the biggest pot of sauce I had ever seen. Many times we came with our Mother for a soda and if we were very lucky, a piece of candy. These times would find us sitting up to the counter as we twisted our bottoms on the stools. We would always take a peek under the counter and check out the blobs of multi colored gum stuck there.
Sometimes we would sit at the booths and have a meatball sandwich for lunch. This simple lunch was pure heaven, but it was Jenny and Angelo's pizza that ruled. It was what we based any other pizza on, and still do. I still can remember the smell mixed with the cardboard box as it made it's way to Grandma's kitchen table. There were times that my Mother would make it for us as Jenny taught my Mother how to make the pizza sauce. Although it was very good, there is something to be said about the proper oven for a pizza. Jenny passed away a couple of years ago; she was 94. Tonight though, she was beside me and I smiled the whole time. I realize just how fortunate I am to have had them both touch and be so strong a part who I am, even for such a humble task, as making pizza for dinner.