I’m remembering the pizza oven at the restaurant. It was brick, gorgeous, original to the building. Some old guy from Sicily built it with his bare hands, his shoes probably still wet from the boat ride over. It was perfect; you couldn’t make a bad pizza in that thing.
Now, I’m trying to heat up canned beans over burning pieces of chair laid out on a concrete roof, hoping the cooking smell doesn’t attract a horde of the walking dead.
What I’d give for a deep dish with everything. It’s been weeks. It’d be worth the risk of getting eaten.