Stromboli — When the Kitchen Is Small but the Hunger Is Real

Easter Sunday. Bethany Church. Then the family for dinner. Ham, baked chicken, all the sides.

MawMaw Shirley's recipe cards in the wooden box on the kitchen counter. I copied another one Saturday morning at her kitchen table. The collection is growing. She watched me copy. She corrected my Cs. She has always corrected my Cs.

Daddy called Sunday afternoon. He is sixty-something and his knees are still bad and he still has not gotten the second one replaced. I am working on him. He is working on me to stop working on him. We are at an impasse. The impasse is the love.

I texted Kayla about her latest design portfolio Tuesday. She is good. She has Tanya's directness and Daddy's eye for proportion. The design field will know her name eventually.

Tanya brought a casserole over Wednesday. The Tanya casserole. Half went into the freezer. The other half fed me Wednesday and Thursday. Mama's casseroles are the silent backup of my entire adult life.

Crawfish boil at a friend's place Saturday. Twenty-five pounds. The shells filled three trash bags. Standard Louisiana spring. We sat at the picnic table for four hours. The corn was the best of the boil. The corn always is.

Sunday service at Bethany. The choir sang. The pastor preached on Hannah and Samuel. I sat with Tanya and Marcus. The hymn at the end was the one Mama used to hum. I cried into the bulletin. Standard.

I drove past the gas station where DeAndre died. I do not stop. I do not avoid it either. The drive past is the drive past. He is twenty-eight in my head. He stays twenty-eight.

Reading something light at night. A novel by a Louisiana writer. The voice was familiar. The voice was home. The book ended on a small kindness. I appreciated that.

Friday night Darius and I watched a movie I have already forgotten. We fell asleep on the couch by ten. The dog (we got a dog last year, did I mention) slept between us. Standard.

I sent MawMaw a photo of my gumbo Tuesday. She replied, "too light, baby, keep stirring." She has not changed the critique in twelve years. The critique is the love.

Tanya's tomatoes were in this week. She brought a sack. I made a sandwich for lunch every day for four days. Heirloom tomato, white bread, mayo, salt. The summer lunch. The simplest pleasure of summer.

The apartment kitchen is small but it cooks. Two burners. One pot. A cutting board balanced on the counter because the counter is too small for both the cutting board and the toaster.

Anatomy lab three days this week. The cadaver work is what they say it is — not gross, not romantic, just human. I went home after Friday lab and made gumbo because the only thing that quiets the body after a day in the lab is the slow stir of a roux.

DeAndre's birthday came around again. I made his favorite — andouille and chicken in brown gravy. I ate two bowls. I called Aunt Renee. We did not say much. We did not need to. The food was the saying.

Daddy sent me an Amazon receipt accidentally Sunday. He bought a power tool I do not understand. Standard. He texted twenty minutes later, "wrong thread, sorry baby." I told him don't worry about it. He said thank you. The exchange was the exchange.

I sat on the porch Saturday afternoon with iced tea. The neighbor's kids were playing kickball. The Louisiana evening is its own kind of Sabbath. The cicadas were starting up. The light was the gold-going-blue light of the southern dusk.

My apartment kitchen is two burners and a prayer, and most nights that is enough — but some weeks the roux and the gumbo and the brown gravy have all been stirred, and what I want is something I can roll up, slide in the oven, and just wait on. After anatomy lab and DeAndre’s birthday and four days of heirloom tomato sandwiches and Tanya’s casserole half-gone in the freezer, I wanted something that felt like an event without asking too much of me. Stromboli is that recipe — it fills the apartment with a smell that makes the dog sit up straight, and it feeds you like you deserve to be fed.

Stromboli

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 25 min | Total Time: 45 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

• 1 lb pizza dough (store-bought or homemade), at room temperature
• 1/2 cup pizza sauce or marinara, plus more for dipping
• 6 oz sliced deli ham or salami
• 4 oz sliced pepperoni
• 1 1/2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese
• 1/2 cup sliced roasted red peppers, drained and patted dry
• 1 teaspoon dried Italian seasoning
• 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
• 1 egg, beaten (for egg wash)
• 1 tablespoon grated Parmesan cheese
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• Pinch of flaky salt

Instructions

1. Preheat oven. Heat your oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and set aside.
2. Roll the dough. On a lightly floured surface, roll the pizza dough into a rectangle roughly 12 by 10 inches. Try to keep the thickness even so it bakes uniformly.
3. Layer the fillings. Spread the pizza sauce over the dough, leaving a 1-inch border on all sides. Layer the ham or salami, pepperoni, mozzarella, and roasted red peppers evenly across the sauced surface. Sprinkle the Italian seasoning and garlic powder over the top.
4. Roll and seal. Starting from one of the long edges, roll the dough tightly into a log, like a jelly roll. Pinch the seam firmly to seal, then tuck the ends under and pinch those closed too. Transfer seam-side down to the prepared baking sheet.
5. Brush and score. Brush the top and sides with the beaten egg. Using a sharp knife, cut 4 or 5 shallow diagonal slits across the top to allow steam to escape. Drizzle with olive oil, then sprinkle with Parmesan and a pinch of flaky salt.
6. Bake. Bake for 22 to 26 minutes, until deep golden brown and the cheese is visibly bubbling through the slits. Let it rest for 5 minutes before slicing — the filling needs a moment to set.
7. Slice and serve. Cut into thick slices and serve with warm marinara on the side for dipping.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 520 | Protein: 26g | Fat: 22g | Carbs: 54g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 1140mg