My Granny is a lover of food-not exotic, rare treasures, but food. She likes it fried, dipped in mayo, covered in homemade gravy, topped with bacon slices and cheese, served with sweet tea. I.love.her. She used to make us breakfast (pancakes AND waffles, bacon AND sausage, grits AND eggs) when we were little. I can smell the goodness just thinking about it. We always eat lunch at Granny's on Sunday. I look forward to it everytime we go home. It is a constant in our lives.
P was there this past Sunday and I asked her to text me a picture of Granny's recipe for Strawberry Pizza. As long as I can remember, when strawberries came into season, Granny made strawberry pizza. It is the taste of summer, the smell of family and friends, the feeling of all is right in the world-when I assure you nothing was right in the world. She would brag about the church ladies begging for the recipe and the gents asking for seconds. She would tease us and say she wasn't going to make it anymore. It was the dessert of choice for our family, but it is my favorite. P has chocolate pie and sweet potato pie and peanut butter balls and whatever else her heart may desire, J loved a glass of Granny's tea more than any other sweet, and N had blueberry dream pie. Dad has coconut (ew!) and my mom likes her pound cake, but hands down-strawberry pizza is my favorite.
In a moment that I did not see coming, partially because I do not want to believe it is happening and partially because this is our thing, my 93 year old Granny did not remember strawberry pizza. She doesn't remember. My heart is broken friends, broken.
P found the recipe though, and with teary eyes, T and I made strawberry pizza.
It just doesn't taste the same.
*I should be honest and say that Granny's has a homemade crust and mine, well, does not. :) Big sis would be proud, little sis will be disappointed!
Recipe coming soon! Need to ask permission first! :)