It takes time to make your own pizza. Even with the no-rise crust recipe I use, it takes time. My 9-year-old daughter prefers white pizza with goat cheese and black olives, and she knows how to season the dough, how to roll it out on the pizza stone, how to paint it with olive oil and fold in the edge. She knows that you prep your toppings while the crust bakes. It’s not much time, but it’s enough to assemble something satisfying; something memorable; something worthwhile. Basil is growing like mad and our tomato plants will be producing soon. A season is passing. It takes time, but it’s time. Everything depends on what my leukemia treatment is like this week. Some days I’m in the hospital, 12, 13 hours, arriving home at 8:00 at night, my system churning with powerful anti-cancer meds and my mind and spirit reduced to cold sludge. Recipes I mean to try out with my daughter are piled up in the kitchen. We’re past overdue to make pizza together and I just want more time.