Those Stinky Little Fishes

Not worthy.

I'm not trusted to do much in the kitchen. I do load and empty the dish washer and get things into their proper place. I'm also permitted to mop the kitchen floor. I get to bake biscuits when the meal demands it. My gravy can be nearly lump-free on a good day but tastes fair.

The one thing I can cook from scratch, with some degree of satisfaction, is pizza.

Pizza is a relative newcomer to the American menu. It was probably available in New York City, Chicago and other places where Italians abound, but not in the South. My first taste of pizza was about this time of year in Miami, which is south of most things while still not considered the South.

My father took the family to attend a convention in the Miami Beach Auditorium, home of the then-popular “Jackie Gleason Show.” It was the first time I was ever in a famous place.

The 1950's streets of Miami were safe, and most shops had signs written in Spanish, “We speak Spanish.” I learned then that my father could read Spanish but couldn't speak it.

Time was reserved to tour the city and taste foods popular there but otherwise unknown, such as guava juice. I liked guava juice, I think.

On a boat tour, we saw Al Capone's home on Palm Island from a distance and homes right on the water with yachts tied up.

In the 1950's, street vendors sold slices of super sweet oranges and cups of juice. Beside the McAllister Hotel there was a line of curious people waiting for slices of pizza.

We'd never heard of pizza. The only known relative of Italian food was spaghetti.

The slice was just bread with a smear of tomato sauce sprinkled with Parmesan cheese.

People were either fascinated or, like my mother, wondered what the fuss was all about. I recall her saying she could make it better but never did.

At this time Boyardee boxed pizza kits were still a couple of years away, and I didn't taste pizza again until a girlfriend produced a kit and set about making a pizza.

Everything went well until she opened a jar of stinky little fishes and layered the anchovies, and maybe capers, over the top.

That was my last pizza until pizza restaurants were suddenly everywhere and I became a fan.

Today I mix up the dough without any thought and load up my thin crust with whatever is at hand so long as it fits with pepperoni.

I checked with that girl on Facebook and, “Yep,” she still likes pizza with those stinky little fishes.

joenphillips@yahoo.com