Remember Me to One Who Lives There

Here, in this fond record, I triangulate food, writing, and remembering. But for most of my life, I’ve been a terrible keeper of memories. I’m the mom who forgets her camera. My photo album is years out of date. I can’t even recall my own office number. (But really, when do I need to call myself?) To tell the truth, I’ve misplaced whole years of my life. It’s a survival technique—a selective memory is cheaper than Prozac. And like everyone, I keep running lists—outsourcing my memory to the computer or notepad. Surprisingly, the extended or prosthetic memory is not a modern phenomenon. What else were those cave drawings for? When Hamlet’s dad says, “Remember me,” his son equates the process with making inscriptions in an erasable Renaissance writing tablet.

I identify with my son’s Aspergian memory. In third grade the students began practicing for the NC fourth grade writing test. DS had to write personal narratives under pressure. A typical prompt for the practice tests: “Write about at time you were sad.” (The underlying assumptions were that we should write about what we know and that kids know their feelings). DS has an endless capacity to catalog facts and concepts (go ahead, ask him what kind of guitar Randy Rhoads played), but conjuring up an experience by its emotional label is a challenge. And why should feelings function as our memory’s primary organizing principle? To prepare for the test (and for life), we kept a memory journal, writing down events, and then listing the possible emotions we could attach to them. When he won tickets to a Durham Bulls Game and competed in a three-legged race on the field, we penned the story and then listed the emotions: happy, excited, proud, and confident. Writing the experience down, and giving it a narrative arc, turned it into a memory.

It’s nothing new to say that food helps to create and prompt memories. Our senses generate memories that our thinking minds forget. And while the impressions in our brains fade and warp, the written memory achieves a form and structure. Here is my memory journal, contoured to fit recipes but jagged as cognition itself.

So why am I writing about memories? Because I put rosemary on our pizza. In Hamlet’s day, rosemary commemorated the dead, comforted the heart, and helped the memory. As mad Ophelia says, "There's rosemary, that's for remembrance."

But as I always say, forgetting can also keep you sane.

This recipe, of course, invokes Italy, but mostly it calls up a mental picture of DS and DD hand-in-hand, walking up the hill of our front yard to pick sprigs of rosemary from the rosemary bush. It’s my memory, but by recording it here, I hope it will be their memory, too.

Pizza with potatoes, mozzarella, rosemary, thyme, and tomatoes (adapted from Jamie’s Italy)

Use a pizza stone. Set oven to highest setting (550 degrees on mine).

Pizza Dough: Combine 3 cups of flour and a teaspoon of salt. Put in food processor on dough setting. Combine 1 and 1/3 cups of warm water with a package of yeast. Add to flour mixture. Mix until the dough looks elastic (about 3 minutes). Place dough in a well-oiled bowl and cover. Let dough rise for at least an hour.

Tomato Sauce: Sauté gently a finely sliced clove of garlic in olive oil. Add a small bunch of fresh basil, 1 14 oz. can of good quality plum tomatoes, sea salt, pepper, and a little sugar. Cook gently for 20 minutes, mashing the tomatoes until smooth.

Pizza:

6 Tablespoons of tomato sauce

4 cooked new potatoes

A small handful of fresh rosemary leaves

1 teaspoon of thyme leaves

Extra virgin olive oil

Lemon juice

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

3 oz. of mozzarella

When the pizza dough is ready, divide it into two balls (freeze one). Put some corn meal on your pizza peel, then pat out the dough into a circle and place it on the peel. Brush some olive oil on the edges. Smear the tomato sauce evenly over the pizza base. Slice the potatoes into ¼ inch thick slices and toss in a bowl with rosemary, thyme, olive oil, a squeeze of lemon, and some salt and pepper. Scatter over the pizza base and put small torn-up pieces of mozzarella in the gaps. Cook for 7-10 minutes.

Ah, Pizza

Having just been in Italy, our standards for good pizza are set to eleven. It’s a bit of a challenge to find high quality pizza in the south—the kind made in coal or wood fire ovens, which hit all the notes of a good thin crust, seasoned sauce, nice charring, and well-placed toppings. Last night we decided to try the new pizza place in Durham, Rockwood Filling station, and I had fairly high hopes. Even though the reviews warned us that it’s still suffering growing pains (open only a month), we figured it had to outstrip bloomin' onions at Outback. DH and I ordered the antipasti and calamari as starters and then chose to split the anchovy pizza for our entrée. DS ordered a plain cheese pie. Unfortunately, there were no options for DD (she dislikes pizza)—no pasta or fries or chicken nuggets, so she ordered their homemade ice cream. (I know . . . I’m a terrible mum. I should have packed the requisite sandwich, but I thought there would be more choices.)

Strangely, they brought out the pizzas first. And then two minutes later the appetizers arrived. So all our food was on the table at once. Arghh. Haven't they heard of pacing? Now we were compelled to eat quickly before either the pizza or calamari got cold. I eat fast anyway, so I don't need any extra incentives. Pissed me off!! What exactly is the definition of antipasti? Not only that, the antipasti isn't cooked, so what prevented them from bringing it before the rest of the food? At the other end of the spectrum, the calamari was over-cooked to a dark brown and proved tasteless (and such a small portion:)). The antipasti was ok—it was nice to have a deviled egg (though mine are superior—see Mad Men dinner). But there were way too many red peppers, and only two small pieces of prosciutto. It looked to me like a barely disguised cost-cutting dish. All in all, the pizzas were ok. The outer edge of the crust was satisfyingly chewy, but the middle was soggy. They went overboard a bit with the caramelized onions. In the end, I’d give their pizza a "6." Better than your average bear, but not worth a special trip. (DS rated his pizza a 1 or 2, but then he likes Papa John’s).

We lived in New Haven for a few years (where all the pizza places are called “Apizza” joints), so we really do know good pizza. Anyone familiar with New Haven is well aware that they lay claim to three of the best pizzerias in the country: Sally’s, Pepe’s, and Modern. And those in the know also argue over whose pizza is best. I’m a Sally’s gal, despite they’re being a pain (always a line, preferential treatment for some, no atmosphere, rude service, etc.). I always ordered a red pie with mozz, anchovies and mushrooms, and it was consistently divine. Sally’s taught me that putting anchovies on a pizza is an art—not too many, not too few, rinsed of excess brine, broken in pieces, and spaced with care. The clam pizza was tasty as well. Don’t get me wrong . . . Pepe’s was also terrific. "Modern" was our take-away place since it was close by. It was less consistent than the other two, but when Modern suceeded, it was sublime. I will never, ever forget a magical Modern white pizza (with ricotta and fresh tomatoes) we had one night. It was ambrosia-licious. (Hmm. Think that descriptor will catch on like “yum-o”?)

As everybody knows, there’s no sublime pizza in North Carolina. There’s ok pizza, such as Panzanella and Pops in Durham. And there’s our home-made pizza. In years past, I have had a few disasters with the pizza peel, so I’ve been cheating with pizza pans. But you know what? I can beat these local competitors. I’m ready to perfect my crust, and I’m ready to get out my peel and put that pie directly on the stone. It’s decided. We’re having pizza again tonight. Apizza, ncfoodie-style.