The sun sets, indicating another day is over and fills me with a strange feeling. I realize I
have not interacted with a single person today. The combination of winter drowsiness and exams
has caused my diet to consist of mainly popcorn and sugar and I desperately need to cook
something nourishing. Forcing myself out of bed, I scribble down a grocery list. I hurry into the
store away from the frigid air. Despite being bundled in heavy layers, the cold seems to penetrate
my bones and I cant stop shivering. I catch a sharp scent and notice the miniature basil plants for
sale near the doorway.
In my childhood home, when I stepped outside in the middle of summer, I would
immediately be embraced by the sweet smell of basil mingling with the spicy one of tomatoes
emanating from the backyard garden. My whole family would help with planting, weeding, and
watering, but every year, the garden owed its success most of all to my mother’s hard work.
August was when the heat and the crops peaked and I enjoyed nothing more than curling up on
the deck with a comforting book after a long walk, watching the fiery pink sunset, and taking in
the summer scent. Constantly inspired by the fresh vegetables, I would pluck the dark ripe
tomatoes, sweet peppers, and tasty basil leaves off their plants to concoct new recipes every
week.
One night, I expertly kneaded dough until my wrists ached and baked it into a golden
crust. Next, tomatoes, basil and garlic were blended, forming a sauce that could pass as
professional in my opinion. Along with my family, I topped the crust and sauce with milky
mozzarella, peppers, and more basil, while the television blared merrily in the background. As
the pizza baked at 450 degrees, its pleasant aroma permeated the entire house, filling us with
anticipation.
Despite knowing they will not be nearly as flavorful or blazingly red as the ones from
home, I grab extra tomatoes from the produce section. I know what I will make tonight. I add
instant yeast and bread flour to the cart. Back at the apartment, I knock on my roommate’s door.
“Do you want to make pizza with me? I have all the ingredients.”
“That sounds delicious.” My stress vanishes as together, we urgently punch the dough
and find a steady rhythm in the repetitive actions of cooking. The final product emerges from the
steaming oven with simmering sauce and melting cheese, tasting like a slice of summer from
home.