What’s better than a freezer full of porky goodness? April delivering it herself, and staying longer than she’d planned, sitting with Cleo’s head in her lap and a mug of hot tea. We talked and talked, and though we’d met once before, it was, as always, nice to fill in the gaps. It’s not unlike focusing a camera, filling in the gaps, and each time you do you get a clearer, stronger picture of this person, the image of a friend.

Several times a year I try to replicate my beloved Chicago deep dish pizza, especially pizza from Lou Malnati’s, my family’s traditional place. 13 years away and I’m finally edging close to pizza truth; it seems the longer I’m out of Chicago, the nearer I get to my pie. When Paige Orloff, writer and Sister Project genius, first visited Simmer, she left a comment, asking about a recipe for deep dish. It surprised me to realize I don’t have one, that I’ve never written it down and I shrugged, thinking I probably never would. Then I got to trading tales with Paige, and by the time she described me as a “kindred, unruly-haired spirit” – not to mention a virtual “dysfunctional family member,” I knew it might be time to try. The next time I make pizza, Paige, you’re with me in the kitchen. In spirit.

And then there is dear Sara Reddy Coyne, from Culinerapy. I haven’t cooked anything for Sara – not yet – but did cook her something up, and now it can be told: The Baker’s Alphabet post was a gift for an expectant friend, and that friend is Sara. When I posted in mid-July she was still not-hungry, nauseous, and not ready to reveal; but ah, the second golden wave. The fog lifts and you start eating again, ravenous, shiny, content. I’m very happy for Sara and her husband Paul, and wish them many shiny, contented days as their new life begins. It’s lovely to know Sara might walk the floors whispering donut rhymes – something that started in very real midnight hours with Josie, and then went to the virtual world, and now in another pair of real hands, might see daylight again.

I don’t know why I’m so astonished that true connections can be made offscreen, but I am. Every blogger I’ve met says the same thing: worried that in person, they will somehow be disappointed, or disappointing.  Since you’ve already glimpsed behind that person’s scenes – a given with childhood pals, but meeting adults, who gets the chance? – expectations may be high, but results even better. It seems that if you put out food, words and trust, new paths may open and in time, circle back.

What.

What?

Like I’m the only one trying to build a better Stouffer’s French Bread pizza.  Is it just a vain attempt to gourmet-ify and recapture the seemingly weightless bliss of my college snacking days, only to find I created one with more calories?   Could I be the only one who wants that?

I think not.

ELK GROVE VILLAGE, Ill. – Retired Air Force Sgt. Mark Evans wanted to send a taste of Chicago to troops in Afghanistan and Iraq.

So he’s doing it deep-dish pizza-style.

The Elk Grove Village man has arranged for thousands of pizzas to be frozen, packed in dry ice and shipped to the Middle East in time for the Fourth of July. His 16-year-old son, Kent, came up with the idea.

“I think it’s good for them. They’re in too good of shape,” he joked.

Evans said DHL Global has volunteered to ship the pizzas that Lou Malnati’s Pizzeria offered at a special rate. He hopes to get as many as 3,000 pizzas to the troops with the “Pizzas 4 Patriots” program.

“It’s saying ‘here’s a taste of home,’” Lou Malnati’s spokeswoman Mindy Kaplan said.

But Kaplan suspects there might be some soldiers who won’t feel that way.
“Maybe New Yorkers won’t like it so much,” Kaplan said

Don’t worry, New Yorkers, your Chicago pals will be more than happy to take it off your hands. Props to the very kind Mark Evans and everyone involved in Operation Lou!

So we went with a near-the-hotel, easy choice, and that easy choice was pizza.

It took only a few moments to figure out we’d basically chosen the Olive Garden of France. Those place mats, those photos, that big, bold type. It was fun to translate their current promotions – “Les Salazzas!” was giving me a P’Zone vibe – and it was frighteningly easy, because in any language, marketing is marketing.

So, now we’re eating at the faux-Tuscan Jardin d’ Olive. In the St. Germain neighborhood even the chains are good, but still, I fully expected to see a bottomless salad and breadsticks. Which is not to say it was bad – I’m not sure bad food is technically legal in Paris – but the best we can say is that it was a great deal, and that was a welcome change, indeed.

What I did take away was the idea that around the world, pizza works in mysterious ways. Here, it was much more than a meat and cheese, pepper and onion platform – it provided a glorious trifecta of fat from distinctly un-American toppings: French ham, a baked egg and a puddle of smooth, chived creme fraiche.

It was so easy. In a restaurant full of blissfully Lipitor-free French families, it was a simple matter to say “Sure, bring me some eggs, cream, and meat on top of my cheese and sauce. Maybe some ice cream on the other half?”

I’m telling you this pizza came with a river of sunnyside-up and the absolute right to dip crust in creme fraiche. It came with a mixed-meal identity and tripped some pizza alarm that sleeps in all of us, the one that challenges your own beloved pie. I sometimes think there’s no bad pizza, only better pizza, and good ingredients tip the scale. My favorite Chicago deep dish, it tips the scales, all right – but deep dish comes with sausage, not eggs. And after munching an extra-fat pizza awash in runny yolks, I must speak to Lou about that.

Today the topic was Last Meal.

Our family has played “Last Meal” many times – what would you eat, and how would you choose? How many courses do you get? Lilly was intrigued, so Josie quickly showed her hand.

“I would start with dim sum,” she said.

“What?” said Lilly.

“You know, the Chinese appetizers. Dumplings and stuff.”

“Oh right! I would have dumplings too. Chicken.”

Josie continued. “Then, a big sausage and mushroom pizza from Lou Malnati’s. And their salad.”

That’s my girl. The tomato-gorgonzola salad is to die for.

Lilly swung in. “Sushi,” she said, “that Crunchy Munchy roll from Yokohama.”

“I LOVE that! Crunchy Munchy is so awesome.”

“I like the Crunchy Munchy roll, ” I said, turning left, “the spicy crab is good, huh?”

Silence. Okay, shut up and drive.

“What should we drink?” Lilly said. “I love ginger ale. Not too much ice, though.”

“Yeah,” Josie said, “we should have ginger ale. Do we get an after-dinner thing? Hot chocolate?”

Lilly thought they could have an after-dinner thing. Why not? It was their last meal.

“Okay then,” said Josie. “I want a big chai latte.”

I turn up the radio, boring NPR. Wow. Precocious darlings, or spoiled brats?

“BUFFALO WINGS!” Josie screamed. “We forgot WINGS!!”

“Wings!!!” Lilly shrieked, “but with mild sauce.”

“I want mine super Buffalo hot,” Josie said, “we’re getting different meals.”

“So for dessert I want tiramisu,” said Lilly. “Isn’t that like, made from cheese?”

Yes, it’s cheese. Red light. Christ, can this meal end?

Josie picked key lime pie, “a whole one.” As we turned toward the parking lot, she wrapped it up.

“Okay. We’ve got sushi, pizza, dim sum, dessert, drinks – did we miss anything?”

“But it’s all from different places,” Lilly said, “will we be able to get all that stuff together?”

They looked at me. Oh sure, now they need me, now they need the driver because she knows the rules.

“You can get anything for your Last Meal,” I said, putting the car in park, “from anywhere. Do you guys want to hear mine? I’d have deep dish pizza too, and…”

They grabbed their bags and jumped out.

I turn off NPR. Hmm. Where can I get dumplings at 8 am?

This is Cleo, our passive but noisy lab. Greg – said husband – and I spend a lot of time saying things to each other like “…what’s Cleo barking at?” or “why is she barking now?”

We spend a lot of time saying things like “what’s for dinner?”

“Are the painters coming today?”

“Did we hang Platform One yet?”

But once in a blue Lawrence moon, we go somewhere different…

…and say other things.

Somewhere that is not very well lit.

Somewhere where we did not have to order the fixtures…

…just bread and olives, pizza and red wine.

Somewhere that is not a question. We smile and don’t say much of anything.

Happy Birthday, Greg.