For Love of Pizza: I will never know a greater love…

I attended my second pizza night at Hawkins Family Farm and, although it almost felt like I was going against the wishes of the universe by attending, I had a beautiful evening. I invited a friend but she wasn’t able to make it, so I ventured on. Alone. A large section of the road heading to the farm was closed; this required me to drive around road signs. We don’t act like this back home–if a road is closed, it really means it’s closed. Dotting the pavement like glaring, cautionary orange beacons begging me to turn around and make a different choice for myself–I ignored the signs and carried forward. This is a skill I’ve been perfecting as of late–I am not who I once was. In my little pink car, navigating around the warning signs while I played chicken with semis, crossing over yellow lines on the arrow straight country road–with the windows down, I could hear the terrifying whiz and feel the windy gust of a metal beast passing too quickly and too close–but these are the choices that we make for love of pizza.

Thanks to the incomparable Katie Jo, pizza night prodigy, I got to pop into the belly of the beast once again and finally meet the locally renowned Chef Sean Richardson. Surely, you’ve heard of him before–or, at very least, you’ve dreamt of one day snagging a seat at one of his Rune pop-up events. I was first introduced to Chef Sean just by name; he was hyper-focused, as a chef should be. Then, by my writing–Plonk and Pleasure. (If your friends don’t hype you up the way that Katie Jo hypes me up when introducing me to new people: are they even really your friends?) Chef Sean not only was familiar with my blog, but complimented my writing. Has a kinder and simultaneously more talented human being ever existed? Henceforth, I was flabbergasted–nearly lobotomized. I said my goodbyes and trudged off with my pizzas to set up camp in the buggy shade of the fruit trees where I’ve so quickly come to feel at home–even with no company but my own ridiculous, ever-spinning mind.

My brain is a gift and a curse. Its status quo is loud and full to spilling. So full, in fact, that words simply fall out of me. Sometimes they exit my mouth in rapid succession and I find myself floored by what I’ve said. More often, I commit them to page (or text document) and my fingers must run marathons to keep up with the deluge of language. Someone once said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Whether it was that bastard Hemingway who said it or not is open for debate, but someone said it. Whoever said it, I think they were on to something–the phrase feels true to me. I’m no writer. I’m just a bloody mess, cleaning myself up one blank page at a time. The words come so quickly that I couldn’t stop them if I tried–so I don’t bother. Then why, last night, after eating delicious pizza in a picturesque setting with no company but my own silver-tongued-mind and a bottle of bubbly, could I not find a single word to say about the experience? 

When I got back home, I tried to write but nothing came. I panicked. I cried. It’s one thing to feel unlike myself while hauling ass down a country road breaking rules, laws, expectations, and my own heart. It’s a very different thing to feel unlike myself because I suddenly, seemingly without cause, have nothing to say on the subject that, arguably, matters more to me than life itself. So I did all that I could think to do at the time–I went to sleep. When I woke in the morning, the sun was golden and a hot breeze shook the limbs of the trees in my backyard creating a scene not dissimilar to the sunlight drenched quivering greenery at Hawkins Family Farm. Still feeling mentally shaky, like a tightrope walker over a pit of hungry crocodiles, unsure of my next step but feeling the weighty importance of its required perfection: I did the only thing that made sense to me. Sleepily, I trudged to the refrigerator, retrieved my cold leftover pizza, and plopped myself down in front of a laptop with the intention of refusing to move until something happened. 

A deluge didn’t come. The floodgates didn’t miraculously burst–but like a sputtering spigot in a drought, the trickles were enough to get me started. Then the rain. Then the flood: and it carried me to this literal, exact sentence. (We’re in this together now. Will you make it to the end with me?) I took my first cold bite of a pizza that I had nearly wrecked with no assistance the night before–so I must have liked it yesterday. The Harvest Special: where tender cashu pork and sesame roasted cherry tomatoes come together in the sort of perfect union that you only see in the movies. Then I remember two things. The first is that sometimes when I fall in love, my brain runs out of words. This silence has happened before and I shouldn’t be scared of it. That’s not to say that I’ve recently fallen in love with someone. That’s not to say that my lover and I are planning a secret escape to Guadalajara. It’s just to remind myself that I’ve survived the silences before. Happily. The second, and perhaps more important thing, is that I went absolutely ape-shit over those sesame roasted cherry tomatoes last night. Yes, I’m remembering–it’s all coming back to me now–that’s why I barely had any slices left to share with my best friend when they got home from work. When I think of cherry tomatoes, my brain says, “sweet.” They’re a sneaky little fruit, after all. But tomatoes are actually a harbinger of umami goodness. Roast those little fuckers in sesame oil and suddenly, like some sort of mad scientist, you’ve created complex little flavor bombs to melt the faces of your enemies or loved ones; whoever dare devour such unparalleled deliciousness. Nutty, rich, sweet–but savory–juicy and refreshing, but still somehow sumptuous. Maybe I’m just in love with these tomatoes. Maybe that’s why I’m struggling to write. 

When the pizza was still hot yesterday and I was enjoying it, and still today when the pizza is cold and I’m devouring what remains, I continue to find myself thinking that I wouldn’t necessarily choose these pizza toppings for myself. But I find some of the best things to happen to me are the things I wouldn’t choose for myself–the good and the bad. It’s what shapes me into who I am: these experiences that I wouldn’t hand select. All this is to say that if Chef Sean makes it you should probably just try it; whether or not you believe it’s for you. I’m really starting to suspect that, as humans, we don’t entirely know what we like. We think we know. We think we know ourselves so well. Do we? Who’s to say. But, when it comes to this pizza, Chef Sean knows me better than I know myself. He knew exactly what I would like and he crafted it into a perfect little pizza for me to devour like the ravenous little gourmandizing gremlin that I am. Thank you.

My second pizza of the evening was the veggie pizza. Chef Sean created a dreamscape: arugula Rockefeller with pickled peppers. We already know arugula is one of, if not my absolute most favorite green. As for pickles? It feels like I haven’t been able to shut up about them as of late. Would I think to combine these two things on a pizza? I don’t know. I’m creative, but I don’t think that’s my brand of creativity. Thank goodness for Chef Sean: once again serving up a pizza that I didn’t know I needed in my life–but now I suddenly feel like this should be standard pizza-place fare. This veggie pizza is a suckerpunch of the seven elements of taste, but it’s so perfectly balanced that you’re actually experiencing everything all at once. How Chef Sean does it, I’ll never fully understand–immense skill? Years of training? Sold his mortal soul to a vampire? Just born with the gift? (And just a friendly shout out to Hawkins for serving a pizza where I actually want to eat the crust. I could kiss you for this.) This pizza brings richness, creaminess, funkyness, and then brightens itself with the refreshing zing of the pickled peppers. It’s giving.

I attended my second pizza night at Hawkins Family Farm and there was nothing second-best about it. Chef Sean served up uniquely delicious, first-rate pizzas. Though I almost felt like I was going against the wishes of the universe by attending, I’m grateful that I was able to pull off my best impression of a well-adjusted individual and enjoy the evening–for pizza’s sake. I invited trouble, but it let me be. The universe spilled my wine and kept me relatively sober; a party-foul of fate. So I ate delicious pizza. Alone. I don’t like to act like this: if a pizza is delicious, it really should be paired with excellent wine and shared amongst friends. But, perhaps, there are other times when selfishness is to be rewarded. No sharing, no pairing, just living in the rawness of the moment with a pizza pie or two. Then you write about it. This is a skill I’ve been struggling with as of late–I am not who I once was. I am just a girl who made my way home last night, in my little pink car, navigating around the warning signs while I played chicken with semis, crossing over yellow lines on the arrow straight country road–with the windows down, I could hear the terrifying whiz and feel the windy gust of a metal beast passing too quickly and too close–but these are the choices that I make for love of pizza. I will never know a greater love.