Mom used to make this all the time when I was little. Cold summer pizza. It’s probably a recipe that started on the side of a Pillsbury package, but I have a photocopy of a years old handwritten recipe card.
It’s unmistakably Mom’s handwriting. Isn’t it funny how we come to recognize these little things and find a second of comfort in them? Mom’s handwriting, familiar stationery with worn edges, memories of sitting on bar stools, picking the radishes out my lunch. So arbitrary and yet heart-warming.
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