Pizza---Food at its Best

After having spent a few weeks in southern France, oh ya, right there on the south coast, right there with the beautiful people, yes, in Provence among the French, it is hard not to notice a few things that are different.  I do not imply worse, I mean events which are treated differently on a daily basis than what we experience here.

Now in saying that I do not suggest that all of us are callous in our treatment of food, or the meal, but that we here, on many occasions, just throw some industrial product-labeled food on the stove, pour it down our gullets in an unceremonious manner and run off to yell at the TV, or play some mindless video game. The meal here is commonly not an event---I suspect because we do not have time. Maybe don't have time because we have to play with our toys. I am not innocent because I too have toys. We are material people.

In France, the meal is an event where friends meet and talk, tell stories and reflect on the ways of the world--including Amuricans. Each item is judged, and slowly consumed mindful of the process used and the quality of the product. It is an event. Even the breakfast of dark toast and preserves is noted over the daily din.  Time is different. There is no rush. Lunch is one and one half hours and very well may include wine.

However, frequently we here in this fine little burg do take time for ceremony, for the event of eating in fine company and in a fine setting--not to mention the exquisite food. Happily, we have weekly potlucks at the lake where the food affectionatoes display their dishes of local vegetables and venison, and of course, Bud's home grown beef---when he can round them up.

Of late, a new adventure has produced a stone built bread and pizza oven where in a fire is built, bricks heated, and a pizza in three short minutes is roasted. In itself the oven is a gem that breaths flames and warmth. It is a fire filled living thing that draws us closer. We huddle like bums around a burning barrel, while sipping pleasant wines from The Continent much like the Rothchilds of our dreams. We are rich I would say, not filthy, but rich. Never a sad thing said, never a a regret, always a smile and a knowing that wealth is our friend.

There is so much more. In the kitchen, others fabricate their perfect pizzas all over one of Jerry's hand-made crusts that he insist consists of the best Italian flour. He is full of himself but for good cause. There is multiple-virgin olive oil, Italian cheeses, assorted peppers from gardens around, onions, meats of many flavors and a splash of red wine carelessly fallen from a lifted glass. There to is the chatter of friends. Advice. Belittling of ill conceived ideas, and laughter at Norwegian suggestions.

The pizzas are not like the plastic-engulfed frozen offerings. They are simple, sometimes tomatoless, a splash of cheese, maybe a slice of lemon and dash of basal. All very simple, all very elegant, all with smiling faces as each pizza rolls into the room to be sampled. Hours go by and the warmth of the outside oven filters though out the room, The wine tasted of the south coast, of France and Italy, and pizza drew in the memories of our time in a castled town.

To France and Italy we must raise a glass for they have a way that is to be admired----------------------even if they are cheese eating surrender monkeys. I couldn't resist.