Pesto Chicken Pizza

Post-tour. Exhausted. Fed. The kind of tired that comes from giving yourself to twelve cities in three weeks, from standing in front of hundreds of strangers and telling them about your mother and your kitchen and the can on the counter. The tour sold out every venue. The book has sold twelve thousand copies. The publisher is no longer cautiously optimistic. The publisher is optimistic, period. A second printing is ordered. Reviews are appearing in food magazines and parenting magazines and grief support newsletters and African American literary journals and the book is being held by hands I'll never shake in kitchens I'll never see.

I came home from the tour and walked into my kitchen and stood at the counter and held the Folgers can and I said, "We did it, Mama." I've said that before. I'll say it again. But this time the "we" was bigger. Not just me and Mama. The "we" included every woman at every tour stop who held the book and told me about her mother. The "we" included Sandra from Birmingham and the woman in Charlotte who made cornbread for the first time since her grandmother died and the man in Houston who cried because his mother taught him to cook and he never thanked her. The "we" is a chorus now. The "we" is a kitchen full of voices. The "we" is the table, extending across the South, across the country, across the distance between the living and the dead. We did it. All of us. Together. At the table.

Made dinner: Mama's fried chicken. Because I was home. Because the tour was over. Because the kitchen is where I return. Because the recipe is the practice and the practice is the prayer and the prayer is: I'm home. I'm here. The table is set. The chicken is frying. Don't stop.

The fried chicken was what I made first, standing at Mama’s counter, talking to the Folgers can. But the next night—the night I finally exhaled—I made this Pesto Chicken Pizza because it’s the kind of meal that says the rushing is over, you can take your time now, you can stand at the counter and spread the pesto slow and lay everything down with your hands. Twelve cities taught me that the table is bigger than I thought, but this pizza reminded me that sometimes the table is just mine, just here, just home.

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 15 minutes | Total Time: 35 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 pound pizza dough, store-bought or homemade
1/3 cup basil pesto
1 1/2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese
1 cup cooked chicken breast, diced or shredded
1/4 cup sun-dried tomatoes, chopped
1/4 cup red onion, thinly sliced
1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 tablespoon olive oil
Fresh basil leaves, for topping
Red pepper flakes, optional

Instructions

Preheat the oven. Set your oven to 450°F. If using a pizza stone, place it on the center rack while the oven heats.
Prepare the dough. On a lightly floured surface, stretch or roll the pizza dough into a 12-inch round. Transfer to a greased baking sheet or parchment-lined pizza peel.
Spread the pesto. Spoon the basil pesto evenly over the dough, leaving about a 1/2-inch border around the edges.
Add the toppings. Scatter the mozzarella cheese over the pesto, then layer on the diced chicken, sun-dried tomatoes, and red onion slices. Sprinkle with Parmesan cheese and drizzle lightly with olive oil.
Bake. Place the pizza in the oven and bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until the crust is golden and the cheese is bubbly and lightly browned.
Finish and serve. Remove from the oven and top with fresh basil leaves and red pepper flakes if desired. Let cool for 2 to 3 minutes, then slice and serve.

Nutrition (per serving)

Pesto Chicken Pizza — The Recipe That Says I’m Home