It's National Pi Day, and I got nothin'. Well, maybe some questions. Like why in hell would anyone bake 24 blackbirds into a pie? Would they de-feather the birds first? And who would eat it? And why couldn't that pieman give a simple dude like Simon a taste of his friggin' pie? And which one is your favorite on Thanksgiving . . . apple or pumpkin? And why did we stop ordering a pizza pie and instead start ordering a pizza? Or just a pie? And what percentage of humans have a clue as to what 3.14159265359 even means?
Back in the 50s, there were not 37 pizza joints in any small town. But in my county, there was one place in a nearby town which was called The Central Hotel, and there was an Italian restaurant there. They had pizza! And lucky for me, my parents were friends with the owners. Louie Nazarro was my sister's godfather, which made me very jealous, because MY godfather lived out on Long Island, and I'm pretty sure he forgot he was my godfather about a week after the baptism. There was never a birthday card or a Christmas present or any acknowledgement at all that he had signed on to look after my religious training and spiritual growth. But Louie Nazarro! He acted as godfather to both my sister and me. I still have the doll crib he gave me for Christmas 1955, the same year my Aunt Georgie gave me my Ginnie Doll. (And yes, I still have that, too.)
My family rarely went out to dinner; that was a luxury my parents could not afford. But a few times a year, we would drive over to Sparta to enjoy a pizza at The Central Hotel. Louie would come over to our table and chat with my parents, and then he would instruct our waitress to treat us to tortoni for dessert. I can still see it and taste it in that part of my brain that is reserved for treasured childhood memories. Add to that the drive home. My sister and I would lie down on the back seat of the Buick and look up and out the windows, watching the streetlights and telephone wires zip on by against a starry sky. There was something other-worldly about that, a peek into the mysteries of the universe. Well, that's how my sheltered five-year-old brain reacted to it.
Tonight, I will make my own pizza pie for dinner. The frozen sauce that is thawing now on the counter is made up of roasted tomatoes, garlic, basil, oregano, and thyme, all organic, all from my summer garden. Roasted and frozen to be enjoyed long after the gardens have been put to bed. You'll forgive me if I claim that it is the best pizza sauce. Because it is. For me, anyway.
So Happy Pi Day, whatever that means to you. Let me offer one other "pie story." My daughter and her fiancé just headed back to Colorado after spending two weeks with me. The day before they left, I baked an apple pie for us. Not being great at pie crusts, I opted for the Betty Crocker Impossible French Apple Pie. Connor ate half of it, and Jenna and I had a slice, and there was enough left to offer to my man, who loves apple pie and drove down to see me this weekend. I enticed him with, "I have pie!" I seemed to have forgotten that the "streusel" that tops the pie contains walnuts, a tree nut to which he is allergic. So, yeah, I inadvertently tried to kill my man with pie. I will obligingly eat my humble pie now.
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