Hi, everyone-
I’ll admit. I do love a good pizza. Especially brick-oven ones.
What about you? What type of pizza do you like?
Where I grew up, over 9,138 miles on the other side of the ocean, pizza isn’t much of a thing. So when I got to America, and saw that every other party, gathering, and table had different types of pizza—I was hooked.
Who knew?
Who knew that before all this—pizza was borne where a young woman had everything: title, power, reverence, and money. She had just married a young man. Both their families thought it would be a good match. After all, they were first cousins—which was common back then.
Can you imagine the wedding of these two?
Food flowing from every direction. The smell of grill, smoke, and smoked and grilled juicy things meant to salivate. And a feast that was only outdone by the equally lavish sparkles of marbled decor. Add to that: chamber music whose hushes made us listen and whose bursts made us believe in the relief of concertos.
Add to that: the Italian countryside.
But in between the nuptial showmanship, the woman and the man spoke. Whispered. Or exchanged looks. Something about them didn’t sit right. They seemed happy alright. But there’s tension in a prolonged look, a disapproving head tilt, and a question unanswered.
Some time during the woman and man’s exchange, the woman found out that the man had always been with another. So now, it didn’t matter that they had the Mediterranean wedding of the century. It didn’t matter that they were cousins at this point. It mattered even less that history would always remember them as …
… Queen Margherita and King Umberto.
Have no one told them:
You can’t just ignore the burdens of the heart?
Margherita went on with her duties. So did Umberto. They might’ve even made great partners in the public eye. Waving on queue. Nodding regally. And holding the head straight up. But inside …
What about the insides?
Legend has it that during one of her public visits, one chef decided to create a dish in honor of Queen Margherita. It was to have tomato, mozzarella, and basil, the three main ingredients in what is today known as Pizza Margherita.
I wonder if Margherita was aware of the food culture that had transpired. And how long lasting it had become. And how far across the globe it had traveled. Especially when Italians brought the pizza culture to America. And how it now became almost more popular than their unofficial national food: the American burgers.
Margherita lived until the year 1926, many decades after a writer named Boucard wrote about the so-called “Pizza Margherita.” So it’s likely that she is aware of its popularity. But a few things likely remained in Margherita’s mind: how …
Eating away things that eat us—like a hardened heart—is a disciplined act of chiseling and unburdening.
Throne, crown, and marbles aren’t ever going to give her Umberto, in the complete sense of the meaning. Those things only mask the real burden.
But I guess that’s the beauty of Pizza Margherita: three ingredients, chiseling in tri-level discipline, creating the ultimate refuge for one woman who was bound by duty to wave, nod, and hold her head straight up—regardless of the hardness of her heart.
Until finally, on her last day, she was laid to rest under the dome of one of the marvels of human history: the Pantheon. Around her: shiny Italian marbles that stood for everything the world still stood for: the shine, the sparkle, and even cold hardness.
But Margherita—whose name now gave millions the comforts of a brick-oven warmth—now no longer has to wave, nod, and hold her head straight up out of duty and a hardened heart. She now only does one thing: pointing her head straight up, away from the world of marbles and marbled worldliness.
It now points straight up to the concrete skies of the Pantheon’s rotunda. Whose wide concrete architectural span didn’t need any pole, stick, or prop whatsoever to stand upright. It only needed the gradual chiseling and unburdening of the unreinforced concrete rotunda. And there, at the heart of the rotunda that Margherita will now look upon, is the open Italian sky.
To which she can forever utter a tri-level arc of a concrete unburdening:
Eat this world.
Eat, this world.
Eat this, world.
-Thalia
PS:
If you enjoyed what you’re reading, consider hitting the “Like” button. It’ll help more people find this article.
Or, you could show your support—by Recommending this reading to others.
Here’s how you can do this:
Go to your Dashboard.
Find Settings.
Go to Recommendations.
Go to Manage Recommendations.
Add “Story Arks.”
I appreciate you.
-Thalia
This is fabulous, incredibly affecting writing, Thalia! Keep at it, no matter the number of likes. Remember: Eat this, world!
Fun and well made piece! You could go on with all the other pizza names, why not? Marinara, Capricciosa, Calzone, Carciofi e Funghi, and my personal favorite, Napoletana with olives and anchovies. Salute!