The Dreamer's Pen

This morning, I found myself craving something very specific: old school cafeteria breakfast pizza. It’s simple really. A soft crust, a layer of sauce, sausage crumbles, and melted cheese.

Nothing fancy and nothing complicated. But for me, it carries the weight of memory, of childhood mornings, of my mom.

She worked in the school cafeteria when I was growing up, and this was one of the dishes she made most often. Only, she wasn’t making a single pan, she was preparing trays and trays, enough to feed hundreds of kids before the first bell. I can still picture her moving through that space with quiet purpose: sliding trays into ovens, slicing pizzas, lining up plates for the kids. At the time, I didn’t fully notice it. It was just breakfast. But now I see it differently.

Looking back, I realize how much care and attention went into those mornings and the lunch hour. She wasn’t just feeding kids, she was creating comfort. She was showing love in a way that didn’t need words, in the way she moved through her work, steady and patient, making sure everyone had something warm to start their day. That thought humbles me now, you know, the sheer scale of it, the quiet consistency of it, the way she gave so much to so many.

This morning, I made the pizza myself. I found a recipe and scaled it down to fit a single pan, just enough for me. And as it baked, the smell carried me back to the cafeteria, back to watching her hands at work, back to realizing that love often comes in small, repeated acts. Every bite reminded me of her, of those mornings, and of the care that often goes unseen but is always felt.

Food has a way of holding memory and this pizza holds hers. It’s comforting, yes, but it’s also a quiet reminder of what I carry with me now. It’s her patience, her steadiness, and the way simple things, like a slice of warm pizza that can hold a lifetime of care.