Clouds and Cauliflower

There’s a moment before the first bite where the whole table feels hushed—like weather about to change. A thin, blistered crust arrives, still breathing heat, and the cauliflower sits across the surface in little pale mounds, browned at the edges. It looks like something between comfort and surprise, familiar and slightly unplaceable. Clouds, if clouds could caramelize.

I’ve always liked foods that seem ordinary until you pay attention. Cauliflower can be that way—quiet, dependable, never asking for much—until it’s roasted and suddenly it has a voice. On this pizza it’s not pretending to be anything else. It’s just itself: softened, toasted, a little nutty, scattered over melted cheese and a crust that wears its char like freckles.

There’s an honesty to it. The kind you notice when you’re hungry and the day has been long, when you want something warm that doesn’t try too hard. A slice lifts, strings of cheese trailing, and the smell is all browned edges and salt and that faint vegetable sweetness.

I don’t know what the “right” topping is, or what makes a meal memorable. Sometimes it’s just the way a simple thing shows up—golden, imperfect, and exactly enough—and you realize you’ve been waiting for it.