Yesterday I had pizza that was made in Brockton, Massachusetts. (Pizzaria Uno deep dish, shipped in dry ice)

It was good, but so different from most pizza. Crust was almost like pie crust, flaky, with cheese atop crust with a thick layer of sauce on top of that. More of a casserole than what I usually consider a pizza.

Childhood in Brockton

A deeply Catholic woman, my mother insisted we use all of the potato, out of respect for its spirit.

After finishing the fleshy innards, we would use the skins to cover our schoolbooks. The bones were used as writing quills. The eyes were used to decorate the tree on both Christmas and Saint Swithins Day.