PIZZA NIGHT

On the night before Berta (the youngest daughter of my host family) goes back to college, she made good on her promise to make me homemade pizza. “Pizza” is an understatement, when you look at the size of the pies she made. (And when I asked her how she learned to make pizzas, she replied that she “has a cousin that works for McDonald’s.” … gotcha.)

The pizzas, regardless of their undecipherable origin and the fact that they were baked in an oven made from a converted metal oil drum, were delicious and a great taste of home, and moreover, another warm night spent with the España family in the kitchen.

Señora España warming up the oven.


Berta preparing the pizza with cut-up hotdogs, ground chorizo, quesillo, and chiles for pizza toppings.



The final product! (If you look carefully in the cabinet in the background, you’ll see the postcard of the Twin Towers I sit beside every morning at breakfast… the Señor España sent back home in the early ‘90s when he was working in upstate New York. Honestly, this world.)