Pizza and a Lesson From My Mom

By: Hillary Vaillancourt

The comforting aroma of pizza dough rising will always remind me of my mom. Not formally

trained in anything culinary, that didn't stop her from insisting on making just about everything on our family table from scratch. 

One year at Thanksgiving, a family member quipped that the whole meal was homemade

except the cranberry sauce, which had been dislodged from a can. The following year, my

mother perfected a homemade cranberry sauce that would have made even Martha Stewart

pucker. 

I've been thinking a lot about my mom lately, how she juggled being a single, working parent to four kids after my dad suddenly passed away, yet made family meals a priority. As a working mom with three young children myself I often feel like I'm not quite measuring up. 

Where my mom made yeasted bread dough for homemade pizza that enticed all of us kids to gather ‘round the table, I usually pop a frozen pie into the oven. 

The truth is, when it came to making bread dough, my mom had a little help here and there,

namely a newfangled bread machine she used to prepare pizza dough ingredients on Friday

mornings before work. By the time she got home, the dough was mixed, leavened, punched

down, risen again, and ready to spread across a pizza pan and tucked into the oven for our

weekly pizza night.

Recently, as my frozen pizzas baked, I held my two young daughters while my five year old son did everything he could to make them laugh. We giggled up an appetite until the pizza was ready, but I couldn't help but look at the pizza boxes a little dismayed. 

I took a bite of pizza. It wasn't buttery or chewy like my mom's crust. It didn't have freshly

shredded mozzarella or a tangy, simmered tomato sauce. 

"Mommy?" My son said as he slipped a piece of pepperoni in his mouth, "I love spending time with you."

I melted, suddenly aware that it was never about the pizza.