It is a late fall afternoon. The kind where one can feel winter’s shoulder butting in.
Disrupting the beautifully sunny scene with its crisp winds and tiny flurries of snow. I sit by the fireplace and the covered bowl of dough: simultaneously warming my feet and eagerly watching the dough rise, waiting for it to balloon up enough so that I can punch it down and see as it deflates back into the confinements of its glass bowl. But a watched pot never boils so I give up on the dough to busy myself elsewhere.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Fire! Fire! An automated voice warns us. I jumped up. But not because of the potential danger. No. I know that this alarm does not mark a tragedy but rather: a meal. As suddenly as the alarm did, it hit me. All the tell tale signs of an active kitchen. I stand at the top of the stairs where I have found all the scents carry to the best. The smell of warm dough and basil trace the air. The soft sound of distant voices and clattering utensils. The sight of all of it as I make my way down the stairs.
My dad bustles around the kitchen sporting a fleece and beaten down Birkenstocks from his college years with the corner of a tea towel stuck in the side of his pants acting as his only form of an apron. He sees me enter the room and smiles. Never mind that we drove home in silence earlier that day because I had a bad race. Or that he most likely had to listen to my oldest brother curse him out and storm off just an hour prior, and will probably again tomorrow. “Hey Annie-Belle,” his nickname for me that I still don’t quite understand. “Here, grab a towel and start pinching the crust.” I don’t need to respond. I searched the towel drawer for the most aesthetically pleasing one and tucked the corner of it into my pants, just as he did: letting it hang on my side down to my knee. We pinch the crust of the pizza dough which rests on a wooden pizza board propped up over the sink. With the newly formed wall we just made around the edges he swirls the olive oil onto the dough and allows me to spread it out. With a perfectly imperfect ratio of sauce and cheese and peppers and a much too large pinch of parsley: we declare it a masterpiece. A masterpiece which is ready for the oven. We start the next pizza. Tossing flour generously onto the bare counter to roll out the pizza dough just enough to allow us to throw it in the air a few times to finish the job.
An array of pizzas build up on the counters around the oven, waiting for all of them to be finished so the family can eat together, which is a rarity these days. But we are the chefs. We sneak a bite of the most cooled pizza, savoring the blend of flavors. “Mama Mia! That’s a
good-a-pizza!” He exclaims, quoting a line from a childhood book called Pizza Pat. It was one of our favorites.
The clock strikes 5 and He tells me to go fetch my siblings and tell them that dinner is ready. Never mind the fact that it was not. It never is ready when he says it will be. Soon a stampede rolls down the stairs, myself at the front of it: simply trying to keep my feet underneath me so I don’t get trampled. I pour soda into glasses for my sister and I. Perfecting the art of only making it look even, but I got more.
The food is perfect. Or is it the company that makes me think so? It does not matter to me. In these moments around the table we talk instead of argue. We share pizza instead of fighting over whose items belong to whom. All I can do is sit. Collecting the laughs and loud talking. My heart is full.
Anne Straka is a junior at Arrowhead Union High School. She is involved in cross country, track, and cross country skiing. In her free time Anne likes to visit coffee shops, hike, read, or hang out with friends and family.