Homemade Pizza Two Ways

Childhood memories follow me wherever I go. It doesn't take much for something to trigger a flashback to quieter days, easier days. It could be as simple as a song that transports me back to a school dance or it could be something I ate that takes me back to the kitchen I grew up in. The memories come flooding back. I live in the present while my mind drifts back and forth.

I remember moments from my childhood like it was yesterday. Some things are more vivid than others but the ones that stand out play like a movie in my head. I can see the reel spinning and I sit and watch the story unfold, only I know what happens because I lived it.

Like most kids, there was always one night of the week that was reserved for takeout. My mom would pull out the restaurant flyers from a drawer and scatter them on the table and we'd take aim at them. It was usually pizza or Chinese or something else that was easy and inexpensive and in fashion.

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Lasagna

There are a few meals that immediately conjure up images of my adolescence and dinner around the family table. My mom wasn't a gourmet cook, but she was a mighty fine one and some of her recipes did more than just feed a growing boy. When I see or hear about a certain food or meal today, I think about the way my mom used to make it. I also think about those moments frozen in time when I first experienced them. And those memories will live with me forever, or until they're stolen by old age.

When I was a kid I would bolt from the school doors after the final bell rang and race home. I'd push through my front door with the weight of the world released from my shoulders and throw my backpack down, run upstairs to my room and tear through my drawers looking for some play clothes to wear. I'd run back down the stairs, two by two, and right into the kitchen. I used to always ask what was for dinner because I was an inquisitive boy; that and I was always hungry. I knew it would be good no matter what, but if it was something like lasagna the anticipation would kill me.
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Sweet Potato Lasagna

I distinctly remember the first time it happened. I was young and my mom was making dinner, as was the norm in my household. I was called to the table when dinner was ready and found a small mound of something vibrant and orange on my plate. This wasn't going to fly.

I mumbled, "What is that?"


She responded, "Sweet Potatoes. Try it, you'll like it."


Not so fast. As adventurous as I am today with food and my palette, that wasn't always the case. There were foods I steered clear from because I didn't like them and then there were foods that I dismissed because I thought it wouldn't taste good. Thought. Not a really good reason, but I was a kid and common sense wasn't in my vocabulary.

So I tried the sweet potatoes. I'm not sure why, but I did. I was finicky back then. But on this day I ate them and I was amazed at the flavour. I actually liked it. It had this caramel sweetness to it and it was buttery and, most of all, I couldn't get enough.  So began my love of sweet potatoes.

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