My Italian grandparents were born in Ohio and Arkansas and now live in San Francisco, but no matter where they lived they always had the best food.

I keep close memory of when my family got together. It was constantly a room filled with a bunch of loud mouths whose voices got louder as they all began to talk over each other.

Watching the San Francisco Giants play on TV while everyone yelled at the screen, I had a pounding headache by the time I got home.

However, there was no way I would hide away in one of my grandma’s extra bedrooms because the pizza would be coming out of the hot baking oven soon.

Gooey, melted, stringy mozzarella cheese draped over the homemade tomato sauce my grandma makes anytime time I ask her to. I never thought to look at anything else she made because it always seemed like there was a glistening light surrounding the pizza.

The aroma of it filled the house while everyone hopped out of there chairs to get a piece.

When I finally put mine on my plate and took a bite, burning the roof of my mouth was not something I was nearly concerned about.

The warm salty dough was soft and cooked to perfection.

No one in my family loved pizza as much as me, so while they were all saving room for dessert or soup and salad I was having another savory slice.

Even when I was full I didn’t want to stop, it reeled me in like a fish on a hook and I couldn’t get enough.

By the time I couldn’t bear to stand up I knew I finally had enough, I sprawled on the couch to make the stuffed, aching feeling in my stomach go anyway while my mom and dad nagged about how I shouldn’t have eaten so much.

Though, I still do that and I never once regretted it. Some things never change, and for me this is one of them.

by CARINA PASQUALE