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7:13 AM: I jostle my still-slumbering spouse George and whisper whine, “I just had a nightmare, a bear killed you” to ensure his day also starts off on the right foot. He groans, due to both my annoying presence and his mild hangover. Like some true dumbasses, we’d spent the night prior prematurely celebrating the launch of Upstairs Books—our tiny used bookstore located above our pizza parlor on a river in small town Maine. We’d sat at that very pizzeria’s bar and congratulated ourselves with multiple cheersings of multiple margaritas—conveniently ignoring the last minute to-dos that would haunt us the following morning.

7:29 AM: Narrowly beating my 7:30 AM deadline for emerging from my comforter cave, I reach onto the ground and fumble around for my standard uniform of late: tired yoga pants with a huge hole in the knee and a grease-stained XL St. George Pizza shirt, both now covered with paint smears (please see the bookstore’s bespoke splatter-painted floors), joint compound flakes (please see the bookstore’s faux plaster stairwell walls) and dog hair (unrelated to the bookstore, but wanted to be transparent).

8:06 AM: Hoofing it down the hill to the combination bookstore-pizza parlor, I can spot my mother’s car already parked outside. As Rosie is a very supportive parent and is the type of clean-freak that owns three vacuums—“they have different jobs!”—she has been tapped to give the little library its final lysol-wipe-down. I cross over the St. George River bridge and knock on her driver’s side window. She emerges clutching a Swiffer and wearing a shirt that repeatedly states, “Can’t Stop. Won’t Stop.” down her torso. Sometimes….I worry about me and my family. But we don’t have time for that self-reflection today—there’s books to be dusted!

8:57 AM: The scant personal belongings left in the shop are repeatedly slid/scooched/shoved out of frame as I snap promotional photos in the morning light. My mother protests as I kick her orange Stanley to the side before capturing the antique display table housing our collection of vintage home decor books. “It’s not SHABBY CHIC ENOUGH TO BE SEEN!” I hiss at her.

9:36 AM: Back at home with a lukewarm mug of coffee balancing on my chest (I’m an A-cup, it’s fine) and a laptop on my stomach, I quickly edit the photos in Lightroom before uploading them to social. Swiping through the selects in their Instagram carousel, I reflect for a moment. Huh, we actually built something real here. After 2.3 seconds of letting pride or whatever wash over me, I snap back to it and toss an explanatory caption onto this bitch and hit “post.”

9:38 AM: My phone buzzes with a text notification. A friend and local chef is eloquently requesting I set aside one of the books he saw in our social post:

10 AM - 4:30 PM: Art directing aka working at my freelance job. I’m sorry, did you think a pizza place and 150-square-foot used bookstore in rural Maine was paying the bills? Aw, sweetie.

4:36 PM: Hop out of the shower and reach for the natural deodorant, then think better of it and grab the “in case of emergency” travel size Dove antiperspirant stick and slide it onto my pits. This is an evening for aluminum. For some reason (probably like…books?), I am feeling sartorially drawn to what can only be described as my most Victorian Schoolgirl Ensemble and throw it on.

4:53 PM: Checking for food in my teeth with the front-facing camera while scurrying back down the hill, I try to avoid tripping, falling and smashing all of the aforementioned chompers. Upon determining all gaps and gums are clear, I lower my phone to see all the parking in front of the pizzeria taken and people congregating on the porch near the Upstairs Books entrance. Fuck. I mean, “great!”

4:57 PM: Cursing myself for giving the bookstore the “convenient” hours of “whenever the pizzeria is open!” (aka Wed-Sat, 5 to 9), I avoid eye contact with the crowd and push past them to the bookstore’s entryway. I apologetically shut the door on a parent mid-sentence explaining to their child, “they aren’t open yet, honey,” then charge up the steps to give the space a once-over. And there, I find utter chaos—a single curtain remains unhung.

4:58 PM: George, unsuspecting, is helping the team finish prep in the pizzeria when I fly in and wordlessly convey that if he doesn’t install that curtain within the next two minutes, I will spontaneously combust.

4:59 PM: George easily and quickly installs the curtain.

5:00 PM: Upstairs Books officially opens for business!

5:13 PM: Watching people carry massive piles of books down to the St. George Pizza counter for checkout makes me beam and also question if I need to raise the prices.

5:48 PM: Our chef friend shows up and beelines it for the requested tome on Swedish cooking. He’s fully absorbed, flipping through it like he’s taking in the once-familiar features of a long lost friend. “This book is probably the one that had the most impact on me when I started out cooking,” he says, almost to himself. He’d given his original copy to another young cook years ago and had been quietly looking for a replacement ever since. I let that sit for exactly as long as I’m capable of letting anything sit. “My sister donated that one,” I offer. “She can’t cook for shit.” In hindsight, I would like to apologize. To him. To my sister. To Magnus Nilsson.

6:02 PM: After the nearly 12 hours of build-up (and countless weeks of demo, construction, sourcing, stocking, decorating, cleaning prior to that), George and I decide we need to get the hell outta Upstairs Books right now, if only for a non-pizza dinner in a neighboring town.

6:30 - 8:13 PM: For the first time in months, we enjoy a meal that wasn’t prepared by us and conversation that has nothing to do with pizza and/or books. It’s the kind of summer night busy Maine business owners rarely get to experience in their own home state: local oysters at the salt-air infused harborside restaurant, sumptuous gelato from around the corner, and a sunset walk down by the water where we play the “if you could afford aaaaaany boat out there, which one would you buy?” game.

8:16 PM: Heading back to our car, we have the classic small town encounter of unexpectedly running into a friend on the street. “What are you two doing out of Warren?!” she exclaims, understanding the self-imposed geographical confines of operating two businesses just down the road from your house. She introduces us to her companion: “These two own the most wonderful pizzeria…and now, oh my god, a bookstore!” We smile and say, “yeah, yeah we do.”

I.

“we’re such dumb bitches…” my sister muttered.

I sighed, turning away, “I know.”

A mere three hours prior, my younger sibling, Julie, and I had perceived ourselves to be smart or at least enterprising bitches. The two of us had weaseled our way into a 36-hour residency at our parents’ Cape Cod vacation. Justifications of family bonding were used to mask freeloading beach access. Like the unconditionally loving, nice people our parents are — they bought it. And that’s on them!

But karma immediately caught up to us in the Storrow Drive tunnel. The lighthearted tone of “road tripppppppp!” had quickly darkened upon finding ourselves in dead stop traffic midway through the subterranean purgatory ironically classified as an “expressway.” We’d managed to perfectly time our drive to hit Friday rush hour in Boston. And that’s on us!

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Julie white-knuckled the steering wheel, keeping sluggish pace behind an nondescript white SUV with the curiosity-piquing license plate, “Timzgirl”. I assisted by performatively zooming in and out of Google maps, tracing where the red line of traffic doom turns to a less catastrophic orange. All the while this blood-pressure-spiking song from my sister’s mystifying playlist blared through her speakers and mingled with the honks of fellow car cave prisoners.

When we emerged hours/8 or so minutes later, we shifted into 5th gear or whatever and left Timzgirl (progressively driven by a middle-aged man) in the dust. We soared over the Sagamore Bridge and the thatched roofs of the once iconic Christmas Tree Shops — may it rest — came into view. We’d made it to Cape Cod.

After an uneventful conclusion to our once-harrowing journey, we’d arrived at our parents’ compact Airbnb. I took one step in the door and promptly got the wind knocked out of me by their dog Luna. This overzealous greeting ("she loves you! give her a pet!") resulted in me dropping my bags, which was ultimately convenient as I was apparently already standing in my bedroom — the mudroom. I looked at my cot, nodded at the rack of coats and pile of boots, and uttered two words: drinks. now.

The following morning, after tossing back some Advil to account for both my sleeping accommodations and wine consumption from the night prior, I joined my family on a classic Cape mission. Not a meal of fried clams or a swim at the National Seashore, but rather, a perusal of the shelves at Parnassus Book Service.

I’d grown up spending a week each July at our Aunt Kathy and Uncle Tony’s small summer getaway in the town of Harwich Port. Core childhood memories include a pound of wet sand falling out of my swimsuit at every post-beach-bathtime, humid nights willing the oscillating fan to make its rotation from my sister's side of the bedroom to mine, and our initial, urgent bookstore run for vacation reads.

While there is no shortage of outstanding independent booksellers on the Cape, none has stuck with me like Parnassus — a former general store so packed with books that they spill out onto racks along the side of the building, in the shade of a forsythia bush.

This return trip felt especially significant — the first time I’d been back since deciding to open Upstairs Books. It had been years, and yet there it was, unchanged. The fact that it still exists at all felt like a small miracle.

Upon entering the 19th century building, my family dispersed. On my way to the fine arts section, I passed the furniture shelves where my father and the proprietor were deep in competitive hip surgery discourse. Him: one. Her: two, with an upcoming back surgery to really clinch the title.

I spent the better part of an hour culling my haul and couldn't help but notice the shop was empty the entire time. I tried not to think too hard about what that meant for the septuagenarian owner — or for me, a soon-to-be-bookseller. If she felt any anxiety, it didn’t show as she cheerfully bagged my finds to the sounds of a staticky classical station on her transistor radio.

After each of us purchased our selected texts, my family stood at our car debating (arguing) over who would drive to the oyster bar for lunch. At that moment, a taxi-yellow Ford F-150 ripped into the bookstore's dirt parking area, nearly manslaughtering me in an effort to secure the closest spot in an otherwise empty lot. The squabble stopped as we silently watched five men in their early 20s emerge clown car style from the big truck's tiny seats. Wearing what can only be described as athleisure-pajamas, they stretched, passed around a vape, and...walked into Parnassus.

And there I stood, a dumb bitch yet again — embarrassed at my surprise that these fine young gentlemen could contain such multitudes. Turns out MMA fans and David McCullough readers aren't mutually exclusive. I left my favorite used bookstore that day reassured not only by its longevity, but by the unexpected range of people it seems to find. Two things I hope to cultivate at Upstairs Books.

II.

Lowball ‘em. It’s the first rule of the cutthroat world known as Facebook Marketplace. And it’s a tactic that has served me well in the acquisition of varied items such as a kiln, a to-scale skeeball game and a 1980s Pepsi vending machine (don’t ask…about any of these).

So, it seemed only natural that my Messenger negotiation style would work on Joanna, the local-ish seller of a vintage cookbook collection. But I should have known I wasn’t dealing with a Marketplace novice when I saw the price: the portentous “$1234.”

Ignoring that warning sign, I read through the rest of the listing, which claimed there were over 4,000 tomes. I couldn’t believe my luck — as someone opening a used mostly-cookbook store this would take care of procurement in one fell swoop.

I cracked my knuckles, clicked “message seller” and typed in my opening offer: a cool $1K. Now we waited...but not for long. Two minutes later, my phone pinged. The immediacy of her response seemed to bode well.

A flat out rejection? This lady was playing hardball. I swallowed my pride and drafted a response:

Ok, wow. So, we’re doing this. I fired back:

The polite yet passive-aggressive trap had been laid. If she was asking that much for precariously piled cookbooks of unverifiable worth, she was either going to have to hold out for the perfect (insane) buyer or eventually come down on the price. And I would be lurking in the social media shadows for the latter.

A new Messenger notification popped up almost immediately. My master haggling tactics confirmed! I smugly opened the app, chuckling to myself: “well, well, well Joanna, we meet again.” The smirk faded as I read her reply:

I’m sorry, did she just call me POOR? After taking a beat to calmly collect myself (read: hysterically ranting to my husband, George), I closed the conversation the only way I knew how:

Just like that, my sourcing dreams were dashed. Discouraged by the book bargaining debacle, I focused on other aspects of store prep. It was during a floor-patching session that I took a break to check my phone and saw a Substack message from a reader:

Cue the stock track of an heavenly choir, because my girl Cathy was an angel. She was headed up to Maine from her home in Rhode Island to visit family the following week and kindly offered to meet me with her boxes of books.

And after Cathy, reached out, then Henry, and soon a growing pile of donations was filling a corner of the WIP bookstore. Turns out books inspire generosity in *some* people (coughJOANNAcough). Emboldened, I took it to Instagram:

And the local community didn't disappoint either. This past weekend we exchanged complimentary cones of vanilla-pistachio twist soft serve for armfuls of books — the perfect negotiation if you ask me.

III.

I have to be real with you. This concluding essay was going to be an emotionally resonant ending to a trilogy of otherwise silly stories. The theme (as bolded and italicized in my working draft): the impulse to build something for others even if it’s tearing you apart. Yeah, you think it’s all fun and games and Hallmark-movie-adjacent shit around here? Wrong!

I try to use this platform to lovingly and humorously detail the running of two small businesses in our tiny Maine town because the majority of the time it is full of love and humor. But with the ramp up to the bookstore, things have been a bit less so.

The fact of the matter is that despite my Substack-based sugarcoating, there is a lot of stress that comes from owning a restaurant. And I am the first person to ever say that!! Not to be extra-obvious but the majority of it stems from finances. Long story short, and you, even as a non-pizzeria-owner know this — everything is expensive. Longer story shorter, this means that George and I still have full-time jobs to help supplement SGP’s costs.

I liken it to the monthly investment that comes from an equally foolish hobby, like…golf. Except that instead of puttering around a green on Sunday mornings, we are shuffling pies in and out of a sweltering oven on weekend nights. AND WE LOVE IT. But we just get tired, ya know? All this to say, we were at a real breaking point when it started to get warm enough this spring to begin work on the (uninsulated) bookstore space.

Ever since I wrote about the little bookstore I’m opening in the previously undiscovered room above the pizza parlor I run in a 200-year-old building in a small Maine town, there has been an onslaught of questions. For the past few months, I’ve fielded inquiries from people as close as our neighbors in the building and as far as Amsterdam (begroeting!). It’s been thrilling to witness the collective excitement about a 150-square-foot used bookshop. But it’s also been nerve-wracking. With every eager “what’s going on with Upstairs Books?”, I can only respond with an acid-reflux-twinged mumble that we’re working on it.

But we really hadn’t been. Between a never-ending, largely ignored request to our landlord to fix a hole in the roof and, again, our day jobs, it’d been hard to find the will to climb the near-90° stairs to do moderate to major renovation (replacing the death-trap steps being one of them). For my husband George, this wasn’t a biggie — he doesn’t work the front counter, answer Instagram DMs, or read Substack comments. Aka he wasn’t receiving these ravenous requests and didn’t feel the same urgency I did to get started.

While I’d been trying to convince him that this groundswell could translate to more customers, which could mean more money, which could mean less stress, sometimes you just need to witness it for yourself. And that’s exactly what happened one morning over his plate of fried eggs at a local cafe. We’d been sitting there sharing a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice when I noticed we were being watched from across the room by (albeit a cool-looking) woman. I nervously gulped down some pulp as she approached our table — we’re at breakfast goddamnit, far too early for human interaction.

She politely greeted us and apologized for staring, explaining that she was trying to place why she recognized me. To my delight, it was from this here Substack! She went on to tell us that she was particularly interested in local food-adjacent writers because she develops recipes and writes cookbooks for King Arthur Flour. It was at this moment that George slowly put down his fork and turned his full attention to this stranger. King Arthur Flour, THEE flour we use in our pizza dough?? A celebrity was in his midst. He remained silently stunned as she asked about the bookstore and then casually suggested a potential King Arthur collaboration with both Upstairs Books and St. George Pizza. It wasn’t until after we’d exchanged numbers and she’d walked away that George regained the ability to speak. “Oh wow. Ok.”

Did we chug the remainder of our lattes, rush to the car to peel out of the parking lot and back to the bookstore demo site to immediately begin work now that George had seen the light? Well, no — but the seeds were planted. The following day, George put on his best pair of shitty jeans and began the process of installing an exterior door to Upstairs Books.

In the weeks since, we’ve tried to seize the opportunity without seizing up and dying of a heart attack. We’ve found a good balance: George reassures me that interest in the store won’t waver if we open on July 6th instead of the 1st, and I maintain a meticulously detailed list of to-dos in a shared Note. There's still stress and there always will be, but we're taking care of it and one another.

Ok, so I have to be real with you. The revised version of this concluding essay was going to be a quick fake-out — a brief nod to this tumultuous period before pivoting to the aforementioned list of shop tasks I actually needed to be doing instead of writing this. The updated notes in my working draft: Summarize stress re: George and bookstore → pivot to “have no time for this (but my therapist will)” → bulleted list of everything still left to do before we open. But hmmm, it looks like I did just write that essay. Guess someone needed to get that out of her system…

And now I really gotta go do all that shit (spoiler: paint floor, install shelves, decide if we have enough of a selection to warrant a “travel” section) if we’re gonna open this puppy soon!

This was a harsh realization to face at the ripe ol' age of 6, but hey, everyone's time comes. Mine just cruelly came before recess.

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My end of days had its start in Miss Lattery's first-grade classroom. We were approaching the school's 100 Day Celebration, tasked with creating a visualization of this seemingly infinite number to share with our fellow students.

With the big day looming, I burned the nap-time oil executing my design. The idea was to take my favorite thing (pasta) and combine it with my other favorite thing (glitter). Armed only with the vague understanding that 10 × 10 = 100, I counted out my favorite pasta shapes into careful groups. Then each silhouette received a hefty coating of Elmer’s and their God-given sparkles color. As we all know, macaroni is orange, ziti is purple and rotelle is neon green.

After every crafting shift at the kitchen table, I would sit back and take in my work. The shimmering squares of dried carbs were filling up the poster board beautifully — three rows across, three rows down. This is where I'll ask you to revisit the previous paragraph where I mentioned my tenuous grasp on the concept of one hundred. The horror washed over me the way it does during a mid-lunchline realization that it’s fishsticks day — total and instantaneous. I had run out of room for the final ten pieces of rigatoni (magenta, obviously). Fuck.

A more carefree child might have whimsically bordered the piece or added a lovingly janky extension square. Instead, I had a full depressive episode eventually leading my bewildered father to help me redo the entire project the night before it was due.

Marching chest first into Miss Lattery’s classroom the next day, brandishing my 2 × 5 row grid of gleaming noodles, I felt juicebox-drunk off power. A perfectionist was born.

And despite a lifetime pursuing the big three of healing (self-help quizzes, podcasts by unlicensed mental health “experts” and surface level introspection), a perfectionist I remain.

Much to the dismay of my Type B husband/restaurant co-owner, George, this manifests most destructively in the design of things. And nothing, NOTHING, has tested this particular affliction more than trying to make merch for an antique-filled pizza parlor in rural Maine.

Our restaurant is a curious mishmash of elements that, dare I say, work. We have a dining room full of heirloom wooden tables where customers reach past wax-dripped pewter candlestick holders for their pepperoni pies and bottles of root beer. It’s like…a colonial pizza party. Which, while charmingly coherent in person, is not a visual direction that easily translates to a screen-printed design covering the 100% cotton Comfort Colors tee of your preferred size.

So I did what any person terrified of failure does when faced with a problem — ignored it. Over our first winter, all discussions were of logistics: filling out never-ending vendor forms, continuously fixing the damn dishwasher and arguing with our neighbor over parking spots. The word merch went unspoken. Until the summer folk arrived. And with them, questions. The most oft repeated: “do you have…like…t-shirts?” As you, reader, know — we did not.

In early-June, after disappointing the third lightly sunburnt, souvenir-seeking vacationer of the day, I knew something had to be done. There must be an artist out there — someone whose work felt handcrafted and specific and a little funny. But where?? Maine, as it turns out.

Through my professional research (frantically scanning Pinterest, Instagram and Are.na), I discovered the modern, cheeky folk art of Jillian Trujillo Hernandez. Her fabric-based drawings are refined but relaxed — exactly what we're going for at St. George Pizza. After some lite social media stalking, I dropped into her dms and invited her down from Deer Isle to Warren for some pizza and creative chitchat.

Following an afternoon spent sampling the menu and studying historic photos of the space, the delightful Jillian left to start sketching. Collectively, we’d decided she would depict a number of St. George Pizza signatures in her trademark graphite style. And within a few days, we received the most beautiful drawings of a pepperoni slice and vintage chair known to man.

From here on out the plan was simple: send the illustrations to a previously entrusted screen printer for application onto tote bags. While I was worried about effectively capturing the art's intricate details, the printer reassured me it was doable. All the same, I let out a startlingly loud sigh of relief upon receiving the pristine proofs.

But oh, sweet naive Megs of yesteryear. By which I mean eleven months ago. She emitted more of a sigh-scream hybrid upon seeing the test print:

Well, you can't say the printer didn't go in confident! "Too confident," "you" might even say, in a never-to-be-posted Google review draft written as a method of expelling rage after this months-long process resulted in a dust-collecting pile of blank totes.

We just couldn't print the illustrations looking like that — so far from their original state. I deeply respect Jillian and wanted her art appropriately represented, even on a bag destined for groceries, dry cleaning and/or performative reading selections.

So I did what every perfectionist dreads and *whispers* I went to plan B. It was time for the next best (ew) option, and by that I meant the quickest option, and by that I meant the closest option, and by that I meant simple shirts with the logo slapped on them by Warren Printing and Embroidery —located a mere .3 miles from the restaurant.

Over the course of early summer, Bob, the owner of the print shop, fielded my hysteria-tinged questions about turnaround times, dad-hat suppliers and thread colors. And whether as a testament to his team's efficiency or a method to get me the hell out of their shop, we had new merch by high season.

These shirts and hats (CURRENTLY AVAILABLE ON OUR WEBSITE) sold well throughout the fall and everyone seemed happy with them. I guess.

Listen, I like them fine! But I was tortured by the totes that never were. Poor Jillian had dedicated herself to those drawings and they were hidden away from the world on my hard drive. As our second winter passed, I fretted and fussed trying to figure out a fix. But no epiphany came. Until it did — thanks to the rare kind of social media spiral that almost makes your weekly screen report feel defensible.

An artist I follow, one who also happens to draw on fabric, was extolling the virtues of iron-on decals via Instagram. My mind tried to process this adhesive sorcery as I watched her apply designs to silk, nylon and even leather. Surely this magic would work on a pedestrian textile such as canvas??

I hurriedly uploaded Jillian’s high-res files to one of those custom apparel printing websites that you’ve never heard of despite being Google’s top result and then anxiously waited for the ensuing decal delivery. And I kept waiting, because they were shipped to our exact street address…in a neighboring town.

Following an awkward doorstep package retrieval at Debra and Scott’s — during which my joke about USPS’s new matchmaking service did not land — I raced home and ripped open the box to reveal the long-awaited glorified stickers. They were flawless.

Holding them with the trembling hands of a first-time parent meeting their newborn, I was relieved to see the detail of the original drawings had been preserved. With cautious care, I laid the transfers onto the totes and began the hotly anticipated application.

As I knelt on the floor, full body weight pressed into my iron while mentally willing the dirty martini decal to adhere, I thought back through this entire merch saga. A year spent terrorizing local vendors, online vendors, myself, my family and probably several innocent bystanders had led me to this moment.

After 30 seconds of pressure — as prescribed by the DTF distributor — I peeled back the protective film to reveal a perfectly transferred transfer. *Squinting* Well, pretty perfect.

Did I spend the next few weeks tweaking and re-tweaking the decals, somehow managing to make them progressively worse? Does my mother now own five St. George Pizza totes I deemed 'not ready for public consumption'? And after all that, did I finally have a come-to-Jesus moment and accept that the very first attempt was, in fact, the best one? Yes, yes and yes. :(

George likes to say “done is better than perfect.”

And I've always thought he was a psycho for that.

But now, gazing upon this pretty-perfect, pizza-themed tote, I can (begrudgingly) admit he’s right. If I kept noodling on frankly imperceptible details, we'd lose sight of what actually mattered: Jillian's art finally being out in the world, an end to a year of screen printing misadventures, and a finished bag large enough to carry one of our pies home.

So for now, I am — tentatively — a recovering perfectionist. But then again, Upstairs Books merch isn't going to design itself…

Although I couldn’t source matching hardhats in time, the fantasy played out mostly according to plan: my pulse raced as I ordered him up the rickety staircase to our makeshift demolition site. His breath quickened behind a full face respirator as he sawed through the (likely lead paint covered) floorboards. Our eyes locked through a concerningly thick cloud of dust. The sexual tension mounted as George leaned in and whispered sweet nothings.

“WHAT?!” I cooed in response

He stomped across the room and flicked off the blaring Shop-Vac, quieting the space.

“Can we PLEASE just go to dinner now?”

Apparently, not everyone is turned on by demoing a grubby, unheated room in the dead of winter. Truth be told, I would have also rather been celebrating our love in a staid, stereotypical manner but given that we recently found a previously undiscovered room above the pizza parlor we run in a 200-year-old building in a small Maine town and decided to turn it into a bookstore before summer, we had to start banging away!

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But don’t freak out. We’re not two HGTV-pilled psychos feening to install millennial grey vinyl planks. As it was with our pizzeria, the bookshop's renovation plan is simple: do right by the Wetherbees. Whomst, you ask? Well, Jan from the Warren Historical Society and I will have you know they're the family that originally constructed this building in 1792 (!) and operated a long-running and beloved general store from it.

So, all we gotta do is strip back the shoddy landlord specials that have accumulated over the centuries to create a thoughtful yet welcoming space that honors tradition while simultaneously redefining it. Easy!

When we first got keys to the downstairs a year and a half ago, the walls were soot-colored. Not from years of accumulated grime but rather the questionable design choices of previous tenants. The space had most recently been inhabited by a “test kitchen” that served $275-per-head “high concept” dinners (think “Pop Rocks on oysters” antics) in a town whose only other “eatery” is the gas station. Given that their name contained the word “black”, one can only assume this is where they derived their interior paint inspiration from.

After taming the walls back to a tasteful Dover White, we set out to fill the space in a way that pays homage to both the building and the town around it. Every piece had to tell some part of Warren’s story, while also, you know, looking cool:

• Wall art was traded to us by our antique-store owning neighbor Doug for a “pepperoni pie every Friday”

• New Shaker Studio (aka my father’s barn-based woodworking business up the road) loaned us some handcrafted furniture

• Vintage tables and chairs were found in our very own basement, formerly donated by locals to the original St. George River Cafe

As a result of this curated mishmash, some might say the restaurant looks “fancy”. Guests walk in and you can see them recalibrating their expectations; then we hand them a menu that's pretty much what you'd serve at a 3rd grader’s birthday party. That juxtaposition is intentional. We want the experience to say “you're worth the nice lighting and the thoughtful design, even if you're just here for a cheese pie, bottle of Coke and one…ok, two slices of chocolate cake.”

We’re anticipating a similar misconception with Upstairs Books. One could easily assume a clandestine library would house priceless leatherbound first editions and precarious gold leaf encrusted codexes. WRONG. Ours is gonna have spiral bound theses on tuna casseroles.

It’s important for us to imbue this tiny bookshop with the same ethos as St. George Pizza: community over pretension. Hence, cookbooks. Often maligned as merely a “technical manual”, food writing encompasses so much more than just the recipes themselves. It provides a chronicle of places, people and history through one of the most unifying activities on earth - cooking. And I’ll be damned if I leave these timeless works languishing in sloppy piles on the floor of your great Aunt’s attic!

There are much finer accommodations in store for my ever-growing inventory of cookbooks. Walk with me: it’s a perfect summer day in Maine. You arrive in “downtown” Warren, with the warm wind tousling your (incredibly full, really shiny) hair. The sun glittering off the St. George River, while charming, temporary blinds you. Through squinted eyes, the vision that is St. George Pizza and Upstairs Books comes into focus. Strolling onto the side porch of the mansard building, you gaze upon the lawn below and view families with mostly well behaved children enjoying lunch at waterfront picnic tables. Tucked at the end of the balcony is an entrance, where a sturdy wooden door is propped open by a smooth stone taken from one of the state’s notoriously rocky beaches. “Cute!” you think. Oh honey, we’re just getting started.

The first thing you notice as you ascend the shop’s staircase is the nostalgic fragrance of secondhand books. The musty, sweet scent is carried through the space by a breeze flowing through the original 6 over 6 windows. You turn to the handcrafted wooden shelves, picking up and flipping through selections like Basic Microwaving and Fifty Ways to Feed Your Lover.

I walk up into the shop (hair also looking incredibly full, really shiny) clutching a pile of books. "Oops, sorry" I say, as the volumes tumble from my arms onto the patinated antique desk being used as the checkout counter. I cross the vernacularly paint-splattered floors, offering up one of my finds—a vintage tome on blueberry recipes. "Later today, we're having a reading with the author—she's local—and afterward we'll go downstairs to the restaurant for a little party with snacks from her cookbook. You should come!"

And you do. After an afternoon of berry discourse and thematic treats with some new lifelong friends, you depart town thinking “my life is forever changed, thank you Upstairs Books…and thank you MEGS.”

Listen! This completely reasonable fantasy is all I have to cling to during this initial renovation stage as mouse shit-laced insulation rains down on my head. Because the reality is that before we can stock the shelves, we have to first…build them.

Alongside that on the ol’ to-do list is a litany of construction chores, including but not limited to: pulling down drywall, breaking up drywall, shoving drywall into contractor bags, hauling the contractor bags to the dump, reinforcing the stairs, potentially building new stairs, cutting a hole into the side of the building, installing a new exterior door in the hole, patching the walls, painting the walls, patching the floors, painting the floors, patching the windows, painting the windows.

But soon enough, I'll be able to look through those polished panes and see what the Wetherbees probably did from this same spot—neighbors gathering, sharing food and stories. And while I'd like to think that will be from the power of my Pinterest pins alone, our real design goal here in Warren is an experience that creates connection over the simple, timeless things in life.

The blue-skied morning after the blizzard, blissfully unaware of the plumbing debacle that awaited me- I (snow)suited up and made my way down the hill and across the river to make some pizza dough. The sun reflected off the powdery drifts into the prep station window. “To hell with what everyone says” I thought, smugly, while lathering up at the kitchen sink “winter IS great.”

Then I realized my hands were still dry, albeit soapy. And that nothing was coming out of the faucet other than a very unsettling sputtering sound. That’s weird. Why would the water just stop working on a random 10-degree day in January with a foot and a half of snow on the ground?

Look, I’m not a plumber! It took me a second! But when I did realize that our pipes were iced over, I leapt into action—by sending a politely worded text with probably one too many exclamation points to our landlord. He promptly replied (you’ve done it again, overly enthusiastic punctuation!) with the concise message:

“blowdry behind the door”

Bro, your building is about to flood and you’re sending me riddles? I crouched under the sink, finding nary a door nor opening of any shape or size. As I was starting to type “how to file insurance claim?” into Google, a glint of something behind our commercial fridge caught my eye. I tugged at the side of the 7-foot stainless steel box, blessedly on casters, until a door handle was revealed directly behind. Son of a bitch.

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At this point, I called my husband down to the scene because if someone’s getting attacked by the rabid critter and/or ghost behind this newly discovered portal, it ain’t gonna be me. While I goaded him from a solid 20-25’ away, George cracked the door and was met with a blast of cold air. Sure enough, the pipes carried through from our cozy cooking area to this unheated expanse on the other side of the wall.

After enacting our landlord’s incredibly technical plan of giving the frozen plumbing a blowout, George and I breathed a sigh of relief as water started trickling back. Crisis averted. Story over!

Oh, you were interested in the secret room that had been hidden for over a year behind a refrigerator full of shredded mozzarella and tomato sauce? Ok fine:

Once George and I had established we were safe from a water main explosion, we decided to endanger ourselves yet again by climbing the incredibly rickety steps located behind the mystery door. After scrambling to the top, we were shocked to find a charming nook with views on all four sides of the St. George River.

The 200-year-old room certainly needed some love, with an unfinished ceiling and questionable floorboards. But there was something there. The original windows, the old support beam, the natural lig—

“Megs! Don’t even THINK about it…”

George was standing at the top of the stairwell, obviously ready to carefully descend, seal the door shut, and forget about this place forever. He also knew that was never going to happen. I was forming a plan :)

Our town square consists of five buildings, three of which house commercial spaces. This is a major downsize from even just a few decades ago, when the woolen mill was still around and Main Street was full of businesses. Now? Warren’s big attractions are our pizza place and the seasonal antique store that our neighbor Doug runs “whenever the pizza place is open”—his words, not mine.

Customers periodically ask if there are plans for the other empty storefronts. We shrug. Our neighbor Mark is hand-renovating the 7,500-square-foot space next door, which should tell you everything you need to know about the timeline. Doug's in California visiting family for the winter. And don't get me started on Chad. So yeah, the downtown "revival" wasn't going great.

Until the discovery of the secret room.

Even with its limitations—small space, steep stairs, and (lack of) spousal support—I could see the vision. George wasn’t grasping the full potential until our aforementioned landlord did me a “favor” and raised our rent for no particular reason at all. This move incensed my husband, who insisted we get some additional benefit for the extra $300 a month we were being charged. When the upstairs room was offered up as recompense, George discovered he was suddenly very enthusiastic about the project.

With the next month’s check looming, the scheming phase commenced. The clandestine entry to the unit provided immediate inspiration and before long, we’d arrived at an outcome: a speakeasy! Listen, if it was popular in NYC and LA in 2008, it’ll be perfect for Warren, Maine now.

Imagine it: you've just finished a sumptuous spread of Caesar salad and pepperoni pizza whilst taking in the sunset over Woolen Mill Park. "Shall we have a nightcap?" you inquire of your dining companions. Everyone concurs and you collectively make your way outside to the side porch, where a newly installed exterior door awaits, with a single, flickering lightbulb above. You ascend the staircase and enter an intimate tableau—hushed groups huddled around candlelit tables, sipping on simple yet refined cocktails to a soundtrack of the river current drifting through the open windows. Exquisite work, yet again, Megs!

Then some deeply annoying practical considerations forced their way into my nightlife daydreaming. For example, I have it on good authority that when humans consume liquids, they typically need to expel them at some point. And there isn’t a bathroom upstairs. Nor is there any plumbing at all. All we’re working with is four paper-thin walls...and one of which is shared with tenants who have a toddler named Arthur and a baby girl, name TBD, arriving soon. Even if we kicked our guests out at a decent hour, there would still probably be significant noise from alcohol-induced tumbles down the 90-degree stairwell. And then, you know, we’d have to contend with the permanent guilt and sorrow that comes from causing someone to break their neck.

Hmm. Back to the drawing board.

It was time to do something insane and consider retail, an industry that is famously flourishing right now. As even further evidence of my mental instability, this wouldn’t be my first time at the brick-and-mortar rodeo. Two years ago, I owned, operated, and shuttered a sandwich shop-cum-market in the neighboring town of Camden.

There were many things about it I didn’t like: tourist buses idling outside, constantly smelling like bacon from the BLTs, keeping up with CPG sparkling beverage trends—the list goes on. But there was so much I loved. My favorite part? Sourcing cookbooks.

Specifically, vintage cookbooks. It’s thrilling to be transported to other eras through period-specific typography, tone, and once-trendy ingredients (sun-dried tomatoes, I’m looking at you). My predilection for these dusty tomes also probably has something to do with the fact that I am of “antiquing age,” which runs parallel to “birding age.” And if you’ve been to St. George Pizza, you can clearly see this obsession for old stuff throughout the interior.

Ok so, a tiny used bookstore above a cozy, antique-filled pizza parlor? CUTE! Smart? Who is to say? Well, probably my beloved accountant, who somewhere in the world just fell to his knees and screamed at the sky, “NOOOOOOOOOO.”

I made my case to him (in my head): second-hand books surprisingly make a decent profit, as you can find them for cheap if not free—meaning any markup is typically 200-300%. And unlike other popular retail items such as packaged goods and lifestyle products, this merchandise won’t expire or fall out of trend—it already is! So what do you have to say now, Michael Menzies, licensed CPA?!

But honestly, we’re not doing this for the money—clearly, we’re already rolling in it from the pizza place 🫠. This is an effort to bring something new (well, used) to our town. Even if we get a few random bibliophiles and/or curious pizza patrons to stop by, that’s great news for a developing Warren. And who knows, maybe one of them will be inspired to open up something of their own and keep “downtown” growing.

Over the next few months, I'll be updating you all on the renovations, book buying, and crying that comes along with this process. We don't have much done yet, but we do have a name. Please say hello to Upstairs Books.

Friday

I could have sworn people liked karaoke. Which is why I insisted St. George Pizza’s holiday party revolve around the activity. But with each mention of the theme to an employee or friend, a increasingly familiar look of terror would flash across their faces. Which was then followed by a nervous inquiry of whether participation was required. Hmm, perhaps my crooning calculus was a bit off.

But there was no turning back. I’d already spent an embarrassing amount of time in CapCut making the invite. Someone was gonna have to get fucking festive and sing, okay??

As the event solidified, so did the sobering realization that “someone” might very well have to be me. But no pitch, no problem. My atonal alto had an easy out: Shoop. As MTV Party-to-Go Vol. 6 was the soundtrack to countless childhood car rides, I’d memorized both Salt AND Pepa’s rap verses at a (too) early age.

With my “safe song” in place, I felt confident stepping up to the mic if no one else would. Until the night before the party, when we tested the sound system post-service. George adjusted the levels and then cued up my jam with a supportive spousal smile. His grin shifted to a gasp when, following the opening hip-hop midi beats, I CROAKED, “here I go, here I go, here I go again, girls—what’s my weakness? MEN!”

That’s when it became all too apparent: vehicle-based scream-singing with a loud backing track doesn’t translate to a solo performance. The party was ruined!

The night of the bash, I overzealously prepped the negroni sbagliato punch to distract from my thoughts: “No one likes holiday parties, no one likes singing, and no one likes ME.” As I stared into the swirling prosecco mixture—and depths of my soul, the door opened. A friend had arrived! With her baby! Cute, but seemingly unlikely to start the show. I kept my eyes trained on the entrance.

Just when I was about to force a fifteen-month-old to cover The Wheels on the Bus or some shit, the caroling cavalry arrived. A real karaoke-fiend friend appeared with a pack of fellow enthusiasts. Then our Gordon Lightfoot cover artist neighbor showed up. As did a literal opera singer. Between these ringers and a second wave of alcoholically empowered attendees—the music flowed for hours.

During cleanup the following day, I tossed pilsner cans and pet nat bottles into the recycling while thinking, “Pretty good party.” Then I received a text from our upstairs neighbor, who I’d warned about the potential noise:

Ok...Pretty GREAT party.

Saturday

George was being a bit pouty about having to work on his birthday. So, I said the one phrase that could fix everything: “wanna use the deep fryer tonight?”

No, that’s not a sexual innuendo (but the mind wanders…) It was manipulation, plain and simple. A bargaining tool to force this middle-aged man to forfeit a celebration for cooking. And given the way his eyes lit up at the offer, it seemed to be working.

Now in my husband's defense, he was born a few days shy of Christmas. And as a fellow December Sagittarius whose childhood cakes would ALWAYS feature Santa, I can confirm—we near-holiday babies carry a heavy burden.

This shared childhood trauma combined with the thought of a long shift slinging pies was bringing my boy down. Which is why I thought to add MORE work to his plate. By way of his dream appetizer: mozzarella sticks.

We'd been dabbling in the art of fried cheese but hadn't yet put it on the menu. Mostly due to my nightmarish visions of George enduring third-degree burns...for a snack. But hey—it’s HIS day. Epidermis be damned!

While he was off gleefully testing the limits of “high-heat cooking oil”, I put on my ol’ marketing cap and decided to turn this birthday bargaining into a promotion. I mean…”party.” People love finger foods, George loves happy customers, and I love money. This was gonna be a win-win (-win).

Until I tried to find a thematic birthday invite.

But guess what they did have:

Fully let down by Big Evite, I simply posted a quick snap of the app to social media. And that was all it took for the fried food fanatics to arrive in droves. We sold out of the special that night, and George spent his birthday beaming at every customer who raved about the sticks. Manipulation successful.

Thursday

Our pizzeria’s Christmas tree has been on my mind for a full year.

Ever since opening last January—just missing that initial holiday season—I’ve been dreaming up a festive fir to act as our yuletide centerpiece. But what started as a mellow, merry brainstorm escalated into a panicked Pinterest crashout as December approached.

In late November, I ordered red velvet ribbons of varying widths. And paper streamers, obviously. And wooden bead strands, of course. And bags of popcorn to make garlands, duh! And after very seriously toying with the idea of putting real candles in the tree Kirsten-style, I remembered that fire safety exists and bought LED ones.

When my bulk shipment from ribbonsgalore.com arrived, I did what any responsible business owner would do: leave the box unopened. Unfortunately, “decorating the tree” was consistently lower on the priority scale than the numerous other tasks required to run a restaurant. The season slipped away as I chopped kale, batched drinks, and baked cakes. And soon enough we’d made it to the holiday break without ever so much as purchasing a little pine guy.

But then a Christmas miracle happened: my sibling’s exhaustion. My sister Julie and her husband Cullen have generously hosted our family gift exchange for years in a neighboring town. They planned to continue the tradition, albeit a few days after Jesus’s bday. They’d be spending actual Christmas day in Massachusetts with Cullen’s family. Fine idea—until December 26th when I realized they weren’t returning until the 27th, the date of our gathering. Were they insane? To host, cook, and clean after a day of travel??

There had to be another way. But what? Our house is a labyrinth of small rooms, the tiniest being the kitchen—so cooking for a crowd is out. My parents’ home is equally old, with the same spatial issues. And on top of everything, each household has not one, but two adorable yet certifiably insane dogs. Oh right, what about our cozy, candlelit restaurant?

I informed the family chat: “Change of plans, Xmas at St. George!” Now we had a pet-free, neutral zone with ample seating, an industrial kitchen, and limitless wine. But—goddamnit, no tree.

George and I hopped in the car, cruising the empty Boxing Day streets for any signs of evergreens. Surprisingly, we struck gold outside the local weed dispensary—a veritable grove of forgotten trees. But the lot was unmanned. The pot shop cashier said we’d have to track down Earl and Sharon, who owned the trailer outside.

I watched from the warmth of the SUV as George cautiously poked around the steel container. Aside from a flickering neon hours sign (stating they should be open), there was no trace of life in the small frosted windows. What was wrong with these business owners? Why wouldn’t they be open on the incredibly profitable day that is December 26th??

Across the street the soft glow of Lowe’s beckoned to us. Pulling up to the big box retailer, we spotted a perfect specimen just outside the garden center. It quickly became clear after several strong tugs that this was a decorative tree securely adhered to the ground. Whoops, don’t tell corporate!

After scurrying away from the exterior security cameras and into the store, we found the two lonely remaining trees. We hauled the least depressing one (no Charlie Brown tree bullshit over here thx) over to self-checkout where three idle employees regarded us with mild interest. And I gotta say, scanning a large tree is pretty fun. But the price was not: $66.

George and I whispered to each other through the boughs:

“Does that say $66? The day AFTER Christmas??”

“It says it’s discounted $3…”

Just when I was about to Karen it up to customer service, George pointed back at the price screen.

“Wait, it’s not $3 off, it’s $3 TOTAL”

Hell yeah, now we’re talking.

Off we went, back to Warren, high on markdown merriment. The still-sealed box of decorations was exhumed from the storage room and with that, the trimming began.

Two hours and seven YouTube ribbon-tying tutorials later, we were done. We’d finally given St. George Pizza the tree it deserved…the day after Christmas.

A weekly journal of pizza parlor chaos in small-town Maine, as told by an ex-ad-creative with questionable life choices.

Sunday

St. George Pizza is being blackmailed by a fifteen-year-old girl. Our dishwasher.

Over the past few months, this teen has watched smugly as we’ve tested, trained, and ultimately terminated several of her classmates that weren’t up to the sudsy responsibilities. With each cheese encrusted plate that was left unscoured, it became clear that she was the only local sophomore fit for the job.

In other words, she had us exactly where she wanted us. But this precocious adolescent wasn’t looking for money, trade secrets, or even extra pepperoni on the pie we send her home with every shift. She was after an audience—specifically, butts in seats for Medomak High School’s production of Grease, where she was running the lights.

When she first mentioned taking time off for the performances, it seemed a mere scheduling note. But the frequency of rehearsal recaps betrayed her stereotypically sullen delivery, and it became clear that...the kid cared about this. All of us working one Friday night were floored when she ceased spraying down pizza pans and flatly said, “you guys should come see the show.”

So we did, because we both love and fear her.

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On a grey Sunday afternoon a few weeks later, the St. George adults loitered in the high school parking lot. Not to nostalgically rip a clandestine cig but rather to divvy up the $20 (!) tickets to the musical’s matinee. Upon entering the theater, the horrifying realization was made that our assigned seats were two rows from the stage. Acceptable accommodations for, say, parents or other immediate family members, but weird and near-creepy for a group of otherwise unrelated, middle-aged co-workers.

George scanned the room and spotted a safer selection up against the wall, next to the student-run soundboard. We settled in, draping our winter coats over the velvet chairs. Our closest neighbor, an elderly man, leaned over and mock-whispered, “they put the bad kids in the back!” To which I laughed and replied, “that’s why we’re here!”

He gave me a blank stare and turned his attention back to the curtained stage. Well damn. As these mid-pubescent performers would soon find out—tough crowd.

To the kiddos credit, they gave it their all. For the next hour, the St. George crew sat trapped, er, enraptured as the 2025 MVHS Players sang, danced and lit the hell out of Grease. As the lights went up, we gave an enthusiastic performance of our own, hooting and hollering for the cast and crew. The four of us looked at each other, full of pride—not only for our teen colleague, but also ourselves. We’d survived a literal high school musical.

This touching moment abruptly ended when we noticed the other attendees weren’t headed for the exits. I frantically flipped through the program. It was only intermission. Fuck.

The next ten minutes ticked by as we denied, bargained with, and ultimately accepted our fate. It was as the lights began to dim again that one of us (who shall not be named to protect their identity) asked, “what if...we left?” Mutual agreement was rapidly met and we slipped out as the opening notes of “Beauty School Dropout” began to play.

The afternoon air felt different than it had an hour prior. Fresher. Freer. We bounded into the parking lot with the youthful assurance that “nothing could stop us.” Then, a-different-someone-who-will-not-be-named couldn’t find his keys.

If you are thinking, “Megs, that would simply be too ironic if the keys had fallen out in the original second-row seats that you all fled, before fleeing...again,” you’d be correct. All the same—that is exactly what happened.

A plan was formed. Two of the crew would head back inside for a key reconnaissance and retrieval mission. I would man the other getaway car, idling directly outside. And most essentially, the remaining operative would fast-track it to the closest dive-ish bar and order a round of drinks and nachos.

Despite paranoid claims that “Kenickie saw me!” the goods were extracted from the theater without incident. We joked about our immature antics over beers and returned home to our grownup lives. And minus a few days of humming “Summer Lovin’” it seemed like this saga was behind us.

Then, on the following Friday night, the dishwasher squeezed soap onto a sponge and said, “So, the spring musical...”

Monday

Chocolate Chip Cookies
This recipe was developed to get people off my freakin’ back.

It all started last winter, when I wrote “chocolate cake” on our first-ever menu—the intention being to swap it out in a week or two with another accessible dessert. But as things made almost exclusively of sugar are wont to do, it quickly gained a fan club, with in-the-know customers calling to exclusively order slices.

As someone who doesn’t consider themselves a particularly adept baker, this cake craze was flattering. And terrifying. My limited skillset was no match for the demand, nor was our KitchenAid mixer, which eventually fell to the viscosity of the rich frosting — the old girl groaning and gushing motor oil directly into the batter before letting out a final gooey gasp.

My amateur tools and I were limping along when we mercifully transitioned to warmer weather and soft serve service. But as quickly as the sunny days appeared, they absconded…along with my will to live. Cake time again, bitch.

But then I had a thought—people also like cookies, right? From a culinary concept, they were perfectly in line with the St. George Pizza ethos—aka something that would be served at a third grader’s birthday party. And from a preparation perspective, of course they’d be easier!

oF cOUrse ThEy’D bE eAsiER!

Ingredients:

• 2½ cups all-purpose flour (300g)

• ¾ teaspoon baking soda

• ¾ teaspoon salt

• 1 cup (227g) unsalted butter, softened

• ¾ cup (165g) light brown sugar, packed

• ½ cup (100g) granulated sugar

• 1 large egg

• 1 tablespoon vanilla extract

• 1½ cups (270g) semisweet chocolate chips or chunks

Preparation:

Step 1
Sift flour, baking soda, and salt into a bowl. Set aside.

Step 2
Lose your mind over the presentation of this “epicurean experience” by painstakingly sourcing enamel trays, antique plates, vintage glass milk jugs and doilies. DO NOT FORGET THE DOILIES.

Step 3
Designate the dessert as “warmed”. Don’t bother assigning a specific person to reheating duty. Have each order be a jolt to your nervous system when you remember it at the register minutes later.

Step 4
Drop everything in the middle of a busy Friday night service to drive over to the nearest market. Buy the milk you forgot to purchase prior to this moment. Apologetically serve the couple who has been waiting just a smidge too long for their dessert tray.

Step 5
Try not to burn each tiny treat as you take orders, prep food, clear tables, help with dishes, run pizzas, answer the phones, explain to an octogenarian customer that “no, we cannot fully turn off the music playing at an already atmospherically low volume.”

Step 6
Admit defeat and order an industrial mixer during a Cyber Monday sale.

Step 7
Put cake back on menu.

Tuesday

One afternoon, I spent more time than I’d like to admit making the Official Invite to our holiday party:

Responses have varied from

to:

Will be reporting back from said event in a future Shift Notes.

Wednesday

The villain of this story is named Chad. I know.

Prior to these halcyon pizza days, I was an advertising creative working on a slew of big brands—one of which being the bro-friendly Old Spice. My copywriter Tara and I used to reflexively write “Chad” into those scripts as placeholder designation for a dumbass dude—trendy typecasting to be adjusted in a later draft.

Guess those manifestation TikToks I scroll past have some merit, because the latest dipshit to wreak havoc in my life possesses the very name we repeatedly invoked to sell deodorant and body sprays.

The brand this boomer-aged Chad aligns himself with is not one of satirically masculine body care but rather a safe, Swedish stalwart—Volvos. As the owner of six vintage vehicles (all in varying states of decay), one could say Chad is a motor vehicle enthusiast. But I feel they would be overlooking his more obvious passion—parking.

The closest neighbor to St. George Pizza, Chad owns an equally old building down the block. His space once housed an antique store, and through the large front windows a neglected mannequin watches among the other untouched ephemera as this man moves his cars around all goddamn day.

According to an incredibly reputable source (…Chad), the town was incensed by his decision to shutter the shop, where consignors were making some side cash. They *allegedly* retaliated by revoking all the parking spots surrounding the building. And apparently, the only thing he can now do with his fleet is to station it directly in front of our pizzeria.

George and I have both pleaded our case over the past year. We asked Chad to refrain from squatting outside our building during service hours so that our customers who most need the proximity—elderly, families, those with disabilities—can have it. He agreed.

But throughout the week, from the shadows of the prep station, I stare in disbelief as Chad inflates yet another flat tire and moves a rusting 240 wagon or defeated V70 six feet forward into a technically different spot. Still within our prime parking zone, of course.

With the weather becoming frigid, so has my attitude—I return his limp waves of a lug wrench with a bitchy stare. He blinks and I think, “Fucking Chads.”

Thursday

The argument was over what most married couples fight about: the 1989 movie, When Harry Met Sally.

See, we run these weekly events at the restaurant:

1st Thursday: Bingo
2nd Thursday: Trivia
3rd + 4th Thursdays: Screenings

And to make things “simpler”, George and I decided to feature films that best represent the current month’s mood. Two pictures, that while in the same seasonal spirit, diverge in style, tone and intended audience. We had breezed through the October movie selections, playing The Shining one week and House the next. Nothing to it!

But then we arrived at November. What I believe to be the worst month (midnight-level darkness at 4pm, cold without the charm of snow, a general aura of “brown”), is severely lacking in cinematic representations. Even still, we felt initial confidence as we penciled The Fantastic Mr. Fox into that 3rd Thursday slot. Arguably Wes Anderson’s best work, this animated caper is the most charming depiction of the penultimate month put to film. With scenes jam-packed full of foliage, feasts and family, it has the viewer twitching for Thanksgiving.

Ok, great, nailed it. Now, what else? We debated indie cult favs, classics we could never play due to the nightmare human who directed them, even additional on-the-nose animations. Nothing felt quite right.

“Let’s just do When Harry Met Sally,” George sighed. A man….and cinephile…defeated.

I pondered the possibility. The Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal romantic dramedy does check a lot of autumnal boxes: thick sweaters, crunchy leaves and the increasingly urgent panic of being single as a cold and lonely winter fast approaches.

But unfortunately for Miss Ryan’s residuals, I was in a spiral of self importance. I wasn’t an event planner goddamnit, I was a motherfucking programming director! This pizzeria, nay, this town, NAY THE WORLD needs cultural curation! We couldn’t pair one charming, family friendly, mainstream hit with another! Take that shit to Chuck-e-Cheese!

I blew my previous screentime reports out of the water that week, dedicating countless hours to scouring the deepest depths of Letterboxd for the perfect flick. George pleaded with me to just pick a movie, any movie. “I have standards!” I scoffed

This debate made it off our TV room’s couch and into St. George’s kitchen, as we continued to squabble over these self-imposed screening selection rules through a dinner service. Right when we were reaching Siskel and Ebert levels of animosity, someone stepped in to save Slice Nights.

A DJ.

Specifically, he was a musically inclined customer who asked if we’d be interested in adding vinyl DJ sets to the Thursday lineup.

Meaning, we’d only need one movie a month.

And with that last minute booking, marriage saved.

Friday

I can only remember a single classmate’s name from first grade: Leah Canali. Have we spoken since attending Johnson School in Nahant, Massachusetts decades ago? No. But I did just google her to discover that she is now an accomplished singer/songwriter whose music stylings are frequently featured on Drag Race. And that counts for something!

To be fair, our bond was likely broken by the fact that I moved to Vermont in the second grade, never to return. “Sorry toots, I got farm friends now.”

That said, how many of you are actually staying in close touch with schoolmates you met while eating glue (JUST ONCE, TO SEE HOW IT TASTED)? Well, if Warren Community School’s 1964 first-grade class is any indication, 13 people are.

When St. George received a reservation for a “large group” the day after Thanksgiving, I’d assumed it was an extended family looking for an excuse to relieve the building familial tensions that arise during holiday house arrest.

Imagine my surprise when the organizer of the crew, Barbara, walked in at 4pm sharp on the night of the booking and announced an elementary school reunion. The rest of the class progressively piled in, pulling off their cold winter jackets to exchange warm hugs. They ordered a medley of pizzas and “large” rum and Diet Cokes, god bless ‘em—all to be shared at their communal tables.

It was a sweet affair to witness, with the former first-graders abandoning auxiliary seating to crowd around a single four-top. The chatter went on for hours, with excited debates about standard subjects like the Patriots and Tony’s hip replacement (“he can still work that dance floor like no other!”).

They closed down the joint, heading out at Maine Midnight—8pm. But not before turning to each other to say “same time, next year?”

After the first date with my now-husband/pizza parlor co-owner, I did what any responsible person would do—I googled the compatibility of our astrological signs.

During that initial meeting, George and I discovered we’re both December babies—six days apart, to be exact. As my celestial practice was limited to the sporadic, narcissistic skimming of horoscopes, I had zero clue what it meant to be a “double Sagittarius.” Sure it’d be fine!

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The romantic evening —goth bar, death metal show, skeeball at a Christmas-light-strewn dive— culminated in a sweet smooch at my doorstep. Goddamnit, I liked this guy. I ran upstairs to my apartment, ripped my phone out of my purse, and consulted the stars by searching: “Sag x Sag love connection?”

The results were thrilling:

“They are eternal igniters of journeys…

Sounds fun!

…but fleeting finishers of them.”

Alright, watch your tone.

Just because I, as a Sagittarius, invariably embody the sign’s stereotypes (ambitious, impatient, foolhardy), that doesn’t mean two of us would compound those traits into a full-blown fire sign inferno, right? Right??

Since my new beau was cute and smart and played piano, I decided to ignore whatever the hell Susan Miller was going on about. And as of this month, Georgie and I will be celebrating our eleventh anniversary.

But in Suze’s defense, the past decade has revealed some truth to that initial star chart reading. Namely, our love language is “journeys”—by way of initiating projects. We simply love starting some shit.

Over the years, our endeavors have ranged wildly in scope and style. Some were ambitious digital tools built with the help of friends; others were intimate labors of love, just for the two of us.

And then there’s St. George Pizza—our biggest undertaking yet. It’s been ten months since the first slice was served last January, and things are seemingly in order: solid employees, smooth operations, a consistent clientele. The day-to-day is steady. Predictable.

Aka: an absolute fucking nightmare for two Sagittarians.

Like others with our astrological alignment, George and I burn for beginnings—the inspiration, the ideation. We even like the middle, mired in executional exertion. It’s the end—with all its closure and consonance (ew)—that turns us off. We built this app/house/pizzeria, and now we just… keep at it?

To fight this predilection, we repeat two truths to ourselves:

• we’ve got a good thing going with this pizza place

• hopping from one dopamine-dispensing scheme to the next is, you know, bad

Luckily, as fire signs, there are plenty of things in the restaurant biz that can go up in flames—literally and figuratively—to keep our blood pumping. Just last month, our shipment of soft serve fell through when the delivery guy abruptly retired—leaving us, and our small Vermont dairy farm supplier, completely screwed. Good for him… I guess?!

If we wanted to keep our social media promises of a new Affogato Sundae on the menu, it meant dropping everything and driving five-plus hours to get the goods from Kingdom Creamery. George and I bemoaned this logistical mess for a moment before realizing—it was going to require dropping everything. And if there’s one thing we love to do as a couple, it’s pivoting, prematurely, to the next thing.

With that mindset shift, our annoying errand turned into a renewing escape. At first light, we’d leave behind all the mise-en-place minutia and head to the unincorporated village of East Hardwick, Vermont, where our new life (read: 48-hour Airbnb reservation) awaited us.

The second we passed into the Green Mountain State, we started to play a more deranged version of the “I could live here” game: the “we could open up a business here” delusion.

Everything we did sparked a new startup. While grabbing a freshly-baked pot pie at the general store, I envisioned us behind the counter shilling natty wine to the neighborhood maple syrup makers. Driving past a spooky Victorian B+B with a “For Sale” sign out front, I longed to offer turndown service amidst the (included with purchase) ghosts. Even our lakefront short-term rental got me fantasizing about the life of a seasonal pontoon rental proprietress.

This emotional game of chicken continued through the morning of our departure. As we jam-packed the backseat of our Honda with the finest creemee cases one can buy, I gazed upon the seventh generation family farm and thought, “I could probably milk a cow.”

The manure scent perfuming the air faded behind us, but our dreams held strong. As the autumnal landscape flew by at a 55mph blur, George and I manically planned our “business empire.” Several hours into the drive, while he was mid-rant about the importance of diversifying one’s portfolio, my mind drifted (sorry babe) to former Vermont poet laureate Robert Frost and his poem, The Road Not Taken.

Most people are familiar with the concluding stanza, which is often (incorrectly) regarded as an endorsement of intrepid individualism:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

But as route 89 took us away from our future plans and towards our present reality, I was struck by the open lines:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

It makes sense that Frost was an Aries, a fellow fire sun. He just gets it: we want to go down all the paths.

Soon enough, we had reached the end of the road. Specifically, India St in Portland, Maine — home to Miccuci’s Italian Grocery. We’d tagged a pizza ingredient pickup onto our journey, thinking it would be an inconsequential detour. However, something about squeezing multiple 50lb bags of artisan flour into a small SUV already packed with soft serve bladders really killed the enterprising vibe. Our manic scheming did not resume at any point during the final hour and a half ride back to our house.

The next morning, after a dreamless sleep, I swung out of bed and into my routine. Today’s journey was a short one — just down the road to our pizzeria, where a litany of daily tasks awaited me. While tediously deep-cleaning the soft serve machine, it hit me.

Over the two-day trip, we’d thought of a dozen new ventures. In previous years, this might have escalated to spastic scheduling with a realtor or hastily registering domain names. But this time? Just a mild conversational crashout amid creemee cartons, and then back to the unglamorous work of maintaining what we’d built.

George and I had done something the two of us rarely do: stayed put. Not bad for two Sags!

The Recipe ☕

Affogato Sundae

Part I: The Ice Cream

Ingredients

• ⅔ cup (7 ounces) sweetened condensed milk

• ¾ teaspoon kosher salt (Diamond Crystal)

• 1½ cups heavy cream

• ½ teaspoon vanilla extract

Step 1.
In a medium bowl, whisk together the sweetened condensed milk, vanilla, and salt until smooth.

Step 2.
In a separate large bowl (or the bowl of a stand mixer), whisk the heavy cream until stiff peaks form. When you lift the whisk, the peak should stand proudly without folding over — like a tiny meringue.

Step 3.
Add a spoonful of whipped cream to the condensed milk mixture and stir to loosen it. Then fold the lightened condensed milk mixture into the rest of the whipped cream, dragging your spatula gently under and over the mixture to combine. You’re coaxing them together, not scolding them.

Step 4.
Transfer to an airtight container and freeze until firm — at least 3 hours, or overnight if you can wait.

Note: In the essay, I mention the soft-serve mix from the Vermont dairy — its sweetness hit a little rounder, its texture just slightly elastic, the way only real cream can be. This version is the closest you can get without a farm and a soft-serve machine.

Part II: Espresso Syrup

Ingredients

• 1 cup white sugar

• 1 cup espresso or extra-strong brewed coffee

Step 1.
Brew the espresso (or very strong coffee) and measure out one cup. The air should fill with that unmistakable bitterness.

Step 2.
In a medium saucepan, combine the sugar and hot espresso. Stir over medium heat until the sugar dissolves completely and the liquid turns dark and glassy.

Step 3.
Bring the mixture to a boil. Let it bubble for about 30 seconds while stirring, then immediately reduce the heat to low.

Step 4.
Simmer for 3 minutes, stirring often. The syrup should just begin to thicken — enough to lightly coat the back of a spoon.

Step 5.
Remove from heat and let it cool in the pan for a few minutes before pouring it into a heatproof jar. Let it rest until room temperature.

Part III: Biscotti

Ingredients

• 2 cups all-purpose flour

• ¾ cup slivered almonds

• ¾ cup sugar

• 2 large eggs

• 1 teaspoon baking powder

• ¼ cup butter, melted

• ¼ teaspoon salt

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Step 1.
Heat the oven to 350°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Step 2.
In a large bowl, stir together the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and almonds. In a smaller bowl, whisk together the eggs, melted butter, and vanilla until smooth. Pour the wet mixture into the dry and mix until a rough dough forms.

Step 3.
Knead a few times until it comes together — just enough to coax it into shape, not enough to make it tough. Divide the dough in half and roll each into a log about 12 inches long and 2 inches wide. Gently press the tops to flatten slightly.

Step 4.
Bake for 25 minutes, rotating halfway through, until firm and just golden. Cool on the pan for 15 minutes.

Step 5.
Lower the oven to 300°F. Slice each log on a diagonal into ½-inch pieces. Lay the slices cut-side down and bake for 15 minutes, flip, and bake another 15.

Cool completely. They’ll be crisp, fragrant, and ready to dip into some ice cream.

To Assemble

Scoop the ice cream into a wide bowl or vintage glass sundae cup (for the St. George experience). Drizzle generously with espresso syrup — enough that it seeps toward the edges. Add one or two biscotti.

Eat slowly. Let it be. That’s the point.

A weekly journal of pizza parlor chaos in small-town Maine, as told by an ex-ad-creative with questionable life choices.

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Monday

People don’t believe me when I say one of the most stressful aspects of my job is wine buying.

“But Megs, doesn’t that mean that you get to raise a glass with distributors while sampling their fine selections?”

Yes, and that’s the anxiety-inducing part!

There are many aspects of a tasting that trigger my type-A introvert self. First off, pronunciations. Listen, did I take six years of French between high school and college? Oui. Did I retain any of it? Nope.

So, I’m already sweating bullets trying to not bungle “Beaujolais”, but that extra-strength antiperspirant really kicks in when we hop on over to Italy and get shit like “Valpolicella” in the mix.

Then there are tasting notes. As it turns out, a trained wine professional is not impressed when you answer, “Thoughts?” with “Good!” While the industry tries to play flavor profiling as semi-subjective, there is typically a right answer, and often it’s “a handful of wet rocks.” Got it!

Lastly, there is the evaluation etiquette—the swirl, the swish, the spit. You heard me correctly: you don’t swallow the wine. After several buzzed tasting sessions, I finally realized the reps—too polite to say anything—were discreetly depositing their sips into a spittoon.

Now I know better. Well, sort of. Zero research into the act of wine spitting was ever conducted. No, I just started to dribble gulps of glou glou into an extra glass. But it dawned on me, as my afternoon appointment with our lovely rep Marie approached—maybe it was time to learn the proper technique?

Then I watched this video and was like, actually….nevermind.

Tuesday

Time was running out. I had 48 hours to get myself out of this mess. If the goods weren’t secured by Thursday, things were gonna get bad.

There was only one person who could help: Cheryl, the sales associate at our local antique mall.

Let me back up. Slice Nights is our recurring event series at St. George Pizza—rotating between movies, music, bingo, and trivia. The first two? Easy. Toss up a classic flick on the projector screen or spin a record on the turntable and you’re set. But games have stakes. Games need prizes.

Any ol’ trinket wasn’t gonna cut it this week, not when 80s and 90s movies-themed trivia was at play. I needed some funny VHS tapes, like yesterday (well actually, not for a few more days, but that turn of phrase felt tonally impactful).

I hit up all my usual suppliers. First stop was my parents, aka the people who introduced me to the stuff.

They were fresh out. But trafficking in dusty DVDS if anyone is fiending.

Next I turned to George, my partner in life, pizza, and crime. If memory served, we had a stash kicking around somewhere—a few joke VHS tapes from the good old days. All we had to do was track them down.

After scoping out the obvious spots, George conceded, “Hmmm…I’m not sure, maybe check the basement?”

And with that, the trail went cold. Because there are simply some places a respectable broad like myself won’t go.

With one shot and no hope left, I called Antiques at 10 Mechanic. Cheryl answered on the third ring. She said they had what we needed. And a lot of it. I got behind the wheel and gunned it down Route 90 to Camden.

Our girl had said the supply was located at the back of the store. Moving past piles of the prototypical Maine memorabilia—LL Bean sweaters, boat paintings, lobster anything and everything—my eyes locked on the (literal) prize.

There they were….all eight VHS tapes. Three of which were Eagles concert videos, from the same tour. Cheryl, with respect, what the fuck?

She’d set me up. Or just has seriously different definitions of “a lot” and “movies.”

No matter—I made do. After slamming a crisp twenty down on the counter, I pocketed my tapes and got the hell outta Dodge.

And on Thursday night, the winners (and 2nd- and 3rd-place finishers) got their loot:

Wednesday

In preparation for next week’s special, I spent several hours of Wednesday morning pickling hot peppers. By that I mean, I lived in a terror-filled nightmare of my own creation in which each second felt like a lifetime plagued by paralyzing dread.

If you’ve ever diced up a habanero, jalapeño, hell, even a banana pepper, and absent-mindedly touched your eye or another sensitive orifice, I know you know the feeling.

As the chopping progressed, I neared that zone of preoccupation where you are so focused on not doing something that the act of doing it becomes increasingly likely. My brain shrieked, “’YOU IDIOT, YOU’RE GONNA TOUCH YOUR FACE I JUST KNOW IT.”

I needed a distraction to derail this train of thought. Time to title the special pizza!

Here is the list of names (and arguments against them) for a pie that features a Calabrian chili cream base, shredded mozzarella, the aforementioned pickled peppers, and a drizzle of hot honey:

Hot Stuff - Hmm….giving mid-level executive sexually harassing his secretary

Too Hot to Handle - Netflix really ruined this one for everyone

Feel the Burn - What is this, Vermont? Am I Ben AND Jerry?

Burning Bites - Too reminiscent of Burger King’s Jalapeño Bites, which I devoured as a stoned teenager—a memory I’d successfully repressed until now.

Don’t Make Out With Someone After Eating this Pizza - Or do, because, who am I to kink shame?

Carmela Soprano - Not sure the hands of man can create something to appropriately convey the fiery perfection of the character brought to life by Queen Edie Falco

Numb Skull -Doesn’t quite work here but would be a good death metal band name

Turns out, creative concepting under the influence of capsaicin doesn’t yield the most successful results. Only after those peppers were properly sealed inside their vinegar baths and I’d washed my hands upwards of thirteen times, then did I have the peace of mind to meditate on the appropriate designation.

Please join us Friday, November 7th for our new special, “THE SPICY GUY”. Because he’s just a little pizza guy who’s spicy.

Thursday

On any given night at the pizzeria, I can be found doing a number of jobs: hosting, running food, bartending. That’s just the life of a small business owner and I accept that. What I reject is the limitation this multihyphenate role puts upon my service style.

In the dark of my closet rest pieces that once had their time in the sun when I worked in-house at creative advertising firms. Silver pants, lace tops, shoes with any hint of a heel, all sigh as I pull out my stained Levis for yet another shift.

Thursdays are particularly hard to dress for because Slice Night operates differently than our normal dinner service. We pare down operationally, and that means I might man both the oven and the dishwasher. So I need an outfit that can withstand the opposing forces of fire and water.

This evening, I felt a wave of rebellion. I was determined to work within these safety/sanitation confines and wear something functional YET CUTE. But after ransacking my wardrobe for a solid thirty-five minutes, I admitted defeat. Jeans and a sweatshirt it was.

Moving forward, I’m trying to change my mindset instead of my outfits. And in an effort to glamorize this sartorial reality, I did what all good art directors do: made a moodboard:

Friday

Closed so our employees could spent Halloween with their families and George and I could attend a Dungeons and Dragons themed party thrown by friends. And that’s just smart business!

In discussing last-minute costumes that afternoon, George outed himself as a former D&D head and began dropping terminology like “character classes” and “elves.” When I expressed my shock, he exclaimed,

“well, I AM a nerd!”

Apologies! I didn’t realize he attended (and apparently passed with flying colors) a Geek 101 class! Curriculum includes: foundational fantasy games, niche coding languages and questionable eyewear choices.

Before you get nervous, know that this discovery will not divide us. We will work through this and emerge stronger, as a couple and as pizza makers.

Saturday

A star-studded evening, featuring a host of (local) celebrities:

• The Well-To-Do Bicoastal Neighbors

  • Californians who return to the West Coast each winter

  • Recently asked if they could leave a bottle of their favorite liquor, Jack Daniel’s, at the bar

  • Wife’s father also loved Jack Daniel’s and was apparently married to Bette Davis before he met her mother.

I will not be carrying Jack Daniels.

• The Breezy Antique Store Owner

  • Supplied most of the art on our walls in exchange for a weekly pepperoni pie

  • Located across the park from us, he advertises his hours as “whenever the pizza shop is open”

  • Once bought a bottle of wine with his complimentary to-go order, saying it was for “his date”. Staff tittered about it all service.

The mystery woman remains elusive.

• The Perfect Couple

  • Come in every Saturday with the same order: five pizzas to-go, two cocktails while they wait

  • Don’t explain the haul or mention other guests

  • Polite, friendly, but not overly interested in talking with me

Simply obsessed with their vibe.

• The New England Prototype

  • Colloquially known as “Big John”

  • Built like a linebacker, which you should have figured out from the nickname

  • Possesses an incredibly thick Boston accent

He reminds me of my uncles, and I want to drink a rum and Coke with him

• The Kind British Writer

  • Lives up the road with his kids and wife at the flower farm she runs

  • Regular-sized guy (this is important info pertaining to the next bullet)

  • Due to a pizza pickup mishap was once mistaken for The New England Prototype. George held out his pizza and said, “Big John?? That you??” And this man politely said, “Um yes?”

Most importantly, the KBW (Kind British Writer) is a subscriber to this Substack. Hi Daniel!

*classically manipulative subtitle, sorry!

Monday

I’ve been on the hunt for geraniums. A fool’s errand in October, the month of mums. But I’m desperate, as the species is the sole survivor of the south-facing windows in which St. George’s interior flower boxes sit.

After a litany of pitying looks and condescending chuckles at the local plant centers, I had given up. Guests would just have to dine next to my garden graveyards—a physical reminder of the fleeting nature of summer and, really, life itself.

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Just when I thought it was Zoloft-time, a sunshiny voice broke through the gloom:

“By any chance, do you want a bunch of geraniums?”

The question was asked by Jesse, a renowned journalist and friend who is now helping out on Slice Nights. And through a recent act of floral fate, she had been bequeathed a shit ton of plants by her soon-to-be-moving neighbors.

She had no need for them, but saw that (despite my best fertilization efforts) we did. So, on Monday I scooped up all nine of the plants and brought them to our pizza parlor—their new home and, let’s be honest, probable final resting place.

Tuesday

A solid portion of this afternoon was spent on my laptop, answering interview questions for an industry publication. By “industry,” you are probably thinking “restaurant” or “food.” Good guesses, but no—I mean the much more specific category of “pizza.”

Prior to receiving this request, I was naively unaware of such niche reporting. But since then, my mind can think of nothing else.

I have so many questions about this specialty periodical:

• Is this journal for pizza eaters, pizzeria owners, or a mystery third option?

• Where is their main office headquartered? Italy? NYC? New Haven?

• Do subscribers get specialized merch like a branded parmesan shaker in lieu of the standard tote bag?

• Does coverage include calzones and stromboli, or do those each have their own dedicated beats?

• Are “pizza reporters” a thing? If so, how does one get such a job?

I suppose I could google all this information, but you know, I won’t.

WEDNESDAY

George has a small but growing list of surrogate father figures here in Maine that he feels the need to impress:

• The verbose contractor that repaired our house foundation

• The steely attendant overseeing the town’s transfer station

Since opening SGP, a third member has been added to this exclusive club: the brusque Italian grocer.

Although I am the point person for our suppliers, George insists on placing the weekly order with this particular market. In his defense, who among us wouldn’t enjoy debating the benefits of certain pepperoni brands with a man possessing a thick South Jersey accent?

George especially loves going to pick up our groceries and getting to talk shop in his mecca: their warehouse. Unfortunately for him, his new job prevents a midday 1.5-hour trek to Portland and back.

So, down ol’ Route One I went to fetch our cases of crushed tomatoes. I parked at the loading dock, navigated through the retail aisles stacked high with pasta, and waltzed into the stockroom, directly up to GG (George’s Grocer). Now, this was not my first time at the rodeo/Italian market, having been the mozzarella mule many a time. Imagine my surprise when this man, my husband’s paternal stand-in, looked at me with zero recognition in his eyes and asked, “Can I help you, miss?”

I mumbled “pick-up for St. George pizza” and began the healing journey to repair my bruised ego. He hacked away at the keyboard of an ancient Dell for a moment before handing me an invoice.

“Oh, my brother wanted me to let youse know that we subbed the burrata.”

HIS BROTHER? My eyes swept over this facsimile, and sure enough, began to notice slight deviations from the original. This guy possessed an indoor pallor, with uncoiffed hair, and a worn sweatshirt. Nothing like the man so revered in my household, with his ever-present tan, gelled locks, and form-fitting henleys.

I processed the idea of boomer-age twins as the brother packed my car to the brim with boxes. Just when it seemed like the Honda was about to burst, the real deal rounded the corner brandishing a can of Castelvetranos.

He handed it to me with a wink.

“Your husband would kill me if I forgot these!”

As I drove away, I watched the duo close up the delivery bay in my rearview mirror before texting George:

“I HAVE HUGE NEWS”

THURSDAY

“SLICE NIGHT #2”

Cast of Characters:
MEGS: Owner of pizzeria
CUSTOMER: Patron of the pizzeria, father of two
CUSTOMER’S WIFE: Fellow patron, mother of two
CUSTOMER’S CHILD 1: Grade school progeny of Customer + Customer’s Wife
CUSTOMER’S CHILD 2: Infant offspring of Customer + Customer’s Wife

ACT I
Scene 1

St. George Pizza. Night. Mid-October.
MEGS stands behind the front counter, half-watching the 1977 Japanese horror movie “House” playing on the screen hanging in the adjacent bar area. CUSTOMER and his family enter through front door on stage left.

CUSTOMER (approaching counter)
Hello, we’d like to order some slices.

MEGS
Of course, what can we get you?

CUSTOMER
A slice of pepperoni, pesto, two mushrooms—

CUSTOMER’S WIFE
—and a cheese!

MEGS
Great! Would you like those for here or to-go?

CUSTOMER’S CHILD 2
(incoherent baby noises)

CUSTOMER
For here, please.

MEGS (glancing at the children)
Sounds good, but just so you know — we are playing a horror movie right now.

CUSTOMER’S WIFE
Honey, maybe...

CUSTOMER
That’s ok! We can handle it.

CUSTOMER swipes credit card at register and sits down at a table facing the movie with his family. MEGS puts their ticket on the line and looks back at the family with concern. The movie’s sound increases as a pivotal scene plays out to the room.

CUSTOMER’S CHILD 1
AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH...

CUSTOMER’S CHILD 2
...WHAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH

CUSTOMER’S WIFE drags CUSTOMER’S CHILD 1 and CUSTOMER’S CHILD 2 through the dining room. They exit the scene through the front door, stage left. CUSTOMER’S WIFE is seen through front window, holding a crying CUSTOMER’S CHILD 2. CUSTOMER slinks up to the counter.

CUSTOMER (sheepishly)
Actually, can we get those slices to go?

(BLACKOUT)

(END OF SCENE)

FRIDAY

Oh, just the usual—dough prep, drink batching, and an unexpected visit from the health inspector an hour before service starts.

Although I purposefully phrased the previous sentence in an attempt to spike your blood pressure, let me calm you down: everything went fine.

I attribute this to two things:

1. We respect and follow the state-implemented health code rules and regulations

2. I bonded with our inspector, Sarah, over the concept of “men”

It started with a discussion of the hood vents and the most efficient ways to prevent dust buildup. Sarah explained that layers of grime can get really caked on and joked, “I sometimes tell clients they should use their powerwasher.”

A beat passed.

“SARAH, DON’T PROMISE MY HUSBAND A GOOD TIME LIKE THAT!” A voice bellowed—I was shocked to discover it was my own. Not only that, but I was clownishly gesturing at George like a sitcom wife waiting for the canned applause. What was I doing? Who had I become? This woman would see right through this corny attempt at connection!

The health inspector looked at George, looked at me, and then laughed her ass off.

We spent the rest of her visit reviewing our handwashing stations while making cracks about lawn maintenance, Home Depot, and chili cook-offs. Silly men!

As I waved goodbye to Sarah and her clipboard an hour later, I thought: today I didn’t just earn a passing grade. I made a friend.

SATURDAY

His and hers pre-service recipe testing:

Which will make it to the menu? Tune in next week to find out!

I’ve been hearing the voices again. A disappointed whisper while I’m rolling silverware. The urgent nagging as I make Caesar dressing. Flat facts being shouted during wine inventory: “You gotta finish that Substack post.”

But running a restaurant means I have stuff to do. A lot of it. And operational tasks take priority over an essay tying together my Sagittarian fear of commitment and a recipe for Affogato Soft Serve Sundaes (a real draft).

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So, the bad news is that I’m limiting my longer-form posts to once a month. Because I need time to process the mildly unhinged personal truths being unpacked in real time via a Google Doc? MAYBE. But more importantly, because of the aforementioned to-dos.

The good news: a new weekly series about St. George Pizza’s “small stuff”—the absurd, irritating, and maybe even heartwarming bits that don’t always make it into the “big picture” pieces.

Shift Notes will be a more realistic peek behind our checkered red curtains. Some days will be tedious, some will be frantic. But that’s the life of a pizza parlor owner, baby!

Without further ado, here’s this past week:

Monday

My office day. And by that I mean lying fully horizontal in bed with coffee irresponsibly balanced on my chest, inches away from my laptop, where I’m placing orders with our suppliers. This is also when I update the menu on our website—hugely important for my husband George’s mother, who is quick to remind me (via a pressing text to him) if changes aren’t seen by mid-morning. She lives in West Virginia and has yet to dine at our restaurant, but I appreciate the remote project management nonetheless.

Tuesday

Trip to “town” to visit my favorite store in the world: Rockland Food Service. This place is like if you turned a corner in the backrooms and stumbled into a restaurant supply closet. Despite an abundance of bulk packaged goods lining the shelves, a sense of nothingness overwhelms the expanse. There are no signs. No atmospheric music. No other customers.

Anyway, I just love it there! My comfort liminal space.

This week’s haul: 2 racks of Mexican Cokes, a case of 10” pizza boxes, and the last remaining bottle of Angostura bitters.

Wednesday

Unbeknownst to most of our customers, George has been working a day job for the nine-month duration of our pizzeria. The reason is simple: money. Restaurant profitability takes time, especially if you’re bootstrapping the entire operation without investors like we are. So, our chef moonlights as a software engineer to keep the metaphorical dough flowing.

The plan has always been to trade off periods of freelance/financial responsibility, with my return to the world of advertising up next. That was until George’s afternoon check-in with his boss, in which he was offered a full-time job. That he accepted.

While we both agree this is the right move (secure company, kind coworkers, steady pace), it does permanently shift the management of the restaurant. The pizza parlor that was George’s dream is now my reality.

*This WILL be expanded upon in a longer post with a recipe for a vodka sauce pie or some shit as I sort through my feelings*

Thursday

The debut of “Slice Night”—a series of rotating weekly events accompanied by a limited menu of, you guessed it, pizza slices!

Last winter, friends hosted sporadic bingo and trivia sessions at St. George, which were always a riotous good time. The problem was that not all diners realized they would be experiencing a side of competitive (and sometimes vulgar) gaming alongside their pies.

So, we decided to isolate the enthusiastic events to a single night: Thursdays. And added movie screenings along with vinyl DJ sets to better round out the programming.

The inaugural showing was The Shining, both as a nod to spooky season but also to convey an “adults only, party time” vibe. And it worked for the most part, save the one teenage boy attending with his parents, who looked equal parts mortified and terrified throughout the duration of the film.

As the credits rolled, the family moved to leave, but not before the son looked back defiantly at the closing crew and stated: “That wasn’t scary at all.”

Goddamn kids.

Friday

A busy blur of an evening punctuated by service sounds:

• the slightly off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday” sung by the entire restaurant to a delighted three-year-old

• the hungry, hurried warning beeps from the nearly empty soft serve machine

• the popping of lambrusco bottles, the cracking of lager cans, the flipping of root beer caps

• the echo of the ticket printers, with the front counter spitting out orders a split second before the bar

• the cacophonic song that George didn’t consider when absentmindedly pressing play on “Sting radio” at the start of the night (see/hear below)

• the shrieks of laughter during our shift drink debrief

Saturday

At the end of service, George makes each employee a to-go pie if they so desire. The requests are never surprising, with pepperoni—the perpetual prom queen—topping everyone’s list. That was until we got some new neighbors.

This past summer, a young couple moved into a sweet, historic house just up the road from St. George Pizza. After initial home renovations inevitably snowballed, they reached out to inquire about picking up shifts for extra cash.

A few months in, and while I could easily compliment their work ethic or problem-solving skills, I’m most impressed by their topping innovations.

Each week, the two of them develop their take-home pizzas in new, exciting, and sometimes shocking ways. This past week, I watched as they started with a pesto base, then added pepperoni, mushrooms, two types of cheese, and finished it off with a healthy heaping of the pre-dressed kale Caesar salad. Truth be told, their creation made me feel ashamed for merely making myself a plain ol’ cheese.

I’ll get ‘em next week.

‘Til then…

Having been raised Catholic, I am clinically unable to express my emotions in a healthy manner. And while my family ditched organized religion decades ago, the repression lessons absorbed as a child are still ever-present at my current big age. This is all to say:

a) therapist recommendations welcome
b) limited coping skills are available to me when things go awry at our restaurant.

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Normally, my trusty defense mechanism of “sarcastic humor” carries me through most regular inconveniences or disturbances. But some days just—how do I put this?—fucking suck, to the point of needing bigger emotional guns.

That’s when an onion pizza comes in handy. You get a good sob and a solid dinner for 1–2 people.

I rolled out this recipe last week as a miserable Monday turned into a terrible Tuesday and lasted through a funereal Friday. And while it didn’t solve all my problems, it certainly tasted like a temporary solution.

Here’s everything that went down at St. George Pizza that had me cathartically crying at the prep station:

A Sick Chef

Running a restaurant famously requires a person to cook food. We have one of those: my husband. And he has COVID.

George likely contracted it on our recent trip to England with my parents, sister, and brother-in-law—none of whom got sick, blessedly/annoyingly. This “vacation” (family, you know?) had already forced a two-week closure of St. George Pizza during peak summer season. Now, with the pizza person isolating and generally being gross in our bedroom, it looked like even more canceled services.

Type of Tears: 😢 — A bit misty-eyed with sympathy for the patient, but properly choked up at the thought of drafting yet another “sorry folks, we’re closed” social media post.

Restocking Fees

George conveniently tested positive two days after we’d placed a sizable produce order with our favorite local farm: Spear Spring. This exceptional organic enterprise is just up the road and run by about the most adorable family you can imagine. Big “Small Farm” should put them in an advertising campaign, stat.

So, you can understand the immense guilt that washed over me when I asked to cancel our delivery for the week. Mom-and-pop shops—especially farms—run on such tight margins. Would losing three cases of curly kale put them out to the proverbial pasture?

Well, no. Because they are good business people and said, “We’ll just sell the stuff at our farmstand,” and I said, “Oh, okay, cool.”

Type of Tears: 🥺 Fully welled, convinced this revocation would trigger a world-ending domino effect.

Wind Gusts

Type of Tears: 😪 Snivels of self-pity. It’s always something!

The Local High School’s Fall Play

When our future dishwasher’s mother responded to a help wanted ad, we couldn’t believe our luck. Her hardworking fifteen-year-old daughter was looking for her first job—or rather, her mom was. The résumé highlights: honors student, JV soccer, theater crew. An overachiever ready to be shaped by our pizza professionalism? What a dream.

And Lexi has proven to be not only serious about sudsing (“I’m locked in” is a frequent declaration), but also hilarious (brightly replying “Ice Cube!” when asked what was streaming in her headphones), and additive (she will proudly tell you the root beer floats were her idea). Which is why I was DEVASTATED when she asked for two upcoming Fridays off to run tech for Medomak Valley High School’s upcoming production of Grease.

Type of Tears: 🥲 Anticipatory. Ready to unleash the waterworks when the St. George Pizza team applauds Lexi on opening night from the fifth row (she’d be mortified if we sat any closer).

The Titular Vegetable

It’s like I always say: onions elicit lacrimation due to the enzymatic conversion of S-alk(en)yl-L-cysteine sulfoxides upon cellular disruption. When onion tissues are mechanically damaged, the enzyme alliinase catalyzes their breakdown, generating sulfenic acids. These intermediates are subsequently rearranged by lachrymatory-factor synthase into syn-propanethial-S-oxide, a volatile lachrymatory factor. Upon volatilization, this compound diffuses toward the ocular surface, where it activates corneal nociceptor neurons via the TRPA1 ion channel. The resulting neural signal initiates a parasympathetic reflex arc, inducing tear secretion to dilute and remove the irritant. You guys get it.

Type of Tears: 🧑🏻‍🔬 Physiological

River Views

With the shop shuttered for another week, I putzed around tackling overdue tasks. After dusting the wine shelf, alphabetizing the spice rack, and fertilizing the flower boxes—I found myself absentmindedly polishing the dining tables.

Upon returning from grabbing a fresh rag, I caught the waning summer sun gleaming off the freshly Pledged wood. I looked out to the river beyond the corner windows—damn, that shit’s pretty. I turned and took in the space that we (me and George, our St. George Pizza team, and all our customers) have created. Damn, that shit’s pretty too.

Just like that, the self-pity broke. Running this place, with all its chaos and cancellations and pizza-fueled meltdowns, is also wonderful and rare. Sometimes it takes a bad week to realize how good you got it.

Type of Tears: 🥹 Girl Who is Going to Be Ok-level grateful

The Recipe 🧅

Onions, Onions, Onions Pizza

Makes one 10-inch square Sicilian-style pizza (feeds 2, generously)

Ingredients:
¾ cup heavy cream
1–2 tsp Calabrian chili paste (start light, cry later)
½ tsp kosher salt
Pizza dough (enough for one 10" square pan—roughly 300–350g)
Olive oil, for drizzling
Flour, for dusting

Cheese:
1 cup shredded low-moisture mozzarella
½ cup shredded provolone
2 Tbsp grated Parmesan (for finishing)

Onions (yes, four kinds despite the title only having three “onions” in it):
½ Tropea onion, thinly sliced
½ sweet onion, thinly sliced
2 shallots, thinly sliced
3–4 green onions, sliced on a bias

Instructions:

1. Preheat:
   If you’ve got a pizza stone or steel, throw it in the oven and crank the temp to 500–550°F. Let it heat for a solid 45 minutes. If you’re using a Sicilian-style pan, just oil it up and set it aside.

2. Whip the sauce:
   In a food processor, combine the heavy cream, Calabrian chili paste, and salt. Blitz until it thickens slightly and holds some structure (like a loose whipped cream). Set aside.

3. Stretch the dough:
   Dust lightly with flour and stretch or press the dough into your prepared 10" square pan. Let it rest if it resists—dough is stubborn and like all of us, sometimes needs a minute.

4. Assemble the pie:
   Spread a few spoonfuls of your whipped chili cream evenly over the dough (don’t drown it; the onions are the headliners). Sprinkle on the mozzarella-provolone mix. Scatter the onion slices—Tropea, sweet, shallot, green—really layer these on and I mean it! Drizzle lightly with olive oil.

5. Bake it:
   Slide into the oven and bake for 12–15 minutes, or until the crust is golden, the cheese is bubbling, and the onions are softened with just a hint of char.

6. Finish + serve:
   Pull it out, shower with Parmesan, and give it one last drizzle of olive oil. Slice, serve, and let the layered onion flavors (and maybe your emotions) wash over you.

This week’s account is a classic tale of spiraling/surviving when the unexpected happens and all your Type-A planning goes to shit.

And as always, feel free to skip on down to the recipe (more like “recipe”, this week)!

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A few winters ago, a neighboring town lost power for multiple hours, and the reason cited by CMP was a single word: “squirrel.”

Was this alert—sent to their freezing customers—a work of comedic genius or just aloof automation?

Well, given that Maine’s monopolistic electrical provider is privately owned by a foreign parent company that poured millions into attack ads during a recent election to convince residents to vote against a publicly controlled grid, mmmmm… gonna go with the latter.

I bring this up to blatantly identify the villain in the following tale of how the lights (and more importantly, the stoves) went out on the busiest night yet at St. George Pizza.

We begin, where most recipes stories do, with olive oil.

Specifically, Wonder Valley— producers of small-batch California EVOO. It’s owned by Alison and Jay Carroll, partners in life and business, who recently relocated from the West Coast back to Jay’s home state of Maine.

These oil tycoons (the good kind!) are our buds and neighbors—well, two towns over, but that’s basically next door around here—so, when they dreamt up a Wonder Valley x St. George Pizza party to celebrate their return to Vacationland, we were all in.

While we are generally fiending for any sort of soiree, this one made particular sense as the Carroll’s premium product works with just about everything on our little menu: salads, pizza and even, well, especially ice cream (more on this later).

The idea was to invite Wonder Valley’s Maine-based customers to this homecoming celebration. I mistakenly thought this meant a few wholesale vendors, whereas Alison was referring to their legions of local fans.

As this misinterpretation worked its way to clarity in my brain, I scanned the dining room, counting: 32 seats max, including 4 decorative chairs hanging from a shaker pegboard.

We were gonna need a reservation system.

As a local pizza shop, we’d been wary of enforcing bookings on our guests—particularly our regulars. But as summer settled in and word of our spot spread around the midcoast, it became harder to guarantee that a family of four’s favorite corner table would be waiting for them at 6 pm.

In most other places, this hypothetical foursome could meander over to one of the many other fine dining establishments within a few blocks. But, as *frequently* mentioned, we live and make pizza in rural-ish Maine. Warren’s only other sit-down restaurant is 4.7 miles away—an 11-minute drive or a two-hour walk. Which is to say: patrons are disappointed if they make the trip to town only to discover we’re packed.

Thus, the impending Wonder Valley party pushed these reservation considerations into operational actualities. After a few Zooms with our assigned account associate, Barbara and a handful of half-watched onboarding videos, St. George Pizza was officially on Resy.

And it was a good thing, as when Alison emailed the invite to their oil aficionados, we were nearly fully booked within the hour.

Leading up to the event, time was spent preparing the menu—Wonder Valley’s EVOO was worked into every category, with the heavy hitters being the Wild Mushroom Pizza and the Pistachio Olive Oil Sundae:

At 4 pm on the day of the party, the first attendees thronged to their reserved tables—each set with a Wonder Valley bottle, resplendent in the late afternoon glow.

Then, at 4:47 pm, St. George Pizza lost power.

You could feel the room collectively hold its breath as we waited for the lights to flicker back on. It’s sunny! It’s June! It’s a really old building! Just a fluke, right?

No. With each passing second of silence, it became clear: this was karmic punishment from the universe for my hubris in creating a Resy account.

When it was crystal clear that we were shit outta luck—a neighbor came in to say the town’s single stop light was out—the trusty St. George Pizza team sprung into action.

I paced up and down the street to find cell reception in order to call the long list of reservations—hoping to catch them before they started their respective journeys. Our angel behind the register, Alida, continued to dole out drinks and reassurances. The boys in the back, Will and George, tossed as many pizzas as would fit into the cooling ovens, determined to at least cover the existing tickets. Even my sister and brother-in-law, who were at St. George as diners, acted as damage control by updating other guests on the situation.

To the customers’ credit—especially those who had driven a fair distance only to find us both literally and metaphorically powerless—no one was fazed. Folks pulled up chairs. Cocktails flowed. And the kitchen served its sole specialty of the night: a cup of olives…with a Wonder Valley drizzle, of course.

The lights came back on at 8:30 pm that night—half an hour past our usual closing time. When the wi-fi blinked back to life, my phone dinged: a Resy notification. Someone had just made a reservation for the following night.

The Recipe 🫒

Cup O’ Olives

Feeds 1-2 as an appetizer; .25 as the main course due to a power outage

Ingredients

• 10-12 Castelvetrano olives

• Drizzle of Wonder Valley EVOO

• Sprinkle of Maldon Salt

Preparation

Gather the Olives
Get some sort of scooping mechanism and put some olives in a cup and/or bowl

Add the Olive Oil
Just toss a little drizzle onto the olives. Not too much, because, well, you are already eating olives.

Finish with Salt
Grab a pinch of the Maldon and sprinkle it on top for a little flavor and texture.

Garnish
Add a cocktail pick if you’re feeling fancy, utensil-wise. Otherwise your fingers work just fine!

Today, we’re talking about how one martini can derail my whole weekend—and the very different (but still delicious) post-service drinks that have taken its place at St. George Pizza.

And as always, feel free to skip on down to the recipe!

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The most important closing task at St. George Pizza is drinking an ice cold martini.

This crucial step comes after rolling silverware but not before turning off all eleven antique lamps that are dotted throughout the dining room. And while not professionally mandated, it’s a duty that all employees typically fulfill —although sometimes subbing in a Negroni or glass of sparkling.

The shift drink, as it’s colloquially known in the restaurant world, is when a complimentary round is bestowed upon the staff post-service. At our pizzeria in rural Maine, our team consists of a whopping five people, including myself, my chef/husband and our local teenage dishwasher. After the last load of dishes has been run and our adolescent employee has departed with her nightly to-go pepperoni pie, George and I toss one back with our other co-workers.

This imbibition tradition occurs exclusively on Fridays, as it’s the only night our of-age associates are on the schedule. You see, our employees are two dear friends who pitch in once a week despite otherwise having non-industry jobs and families to attend to. Which is why our shifty sessions are so essential—it’s not a boozy corporate buyoff; it’s four buds analyzing, venting, and cackling about the evening’s service.

This practice was upheld through the winter, a season of limited hours during which George typically soloed sleepy weekend lunches. But as the snow melted (in early May….), we transitioned to a beefed up schedule that included a Saturday night service. With our staffing limited to Fridays, this means the following night is double duty for both George and myself. And I’m here to tell you it’s much harder to do twice the work with the memory of olive brine and gin flashing through my nervous system.

But goddamnit, I still want to sit on the porch with my friends, chatting about table 5 and their request for “pickles” (?). That sense of camaraderie is what makes running a small business worth it. So I did what any normal person would do: I turned to Katy Perry.

For those unfamiliar, the astronaut-cum-pop star is the co-founder of De Soi, a brand of “non-alcoholic apéritifs made with adaptogens and natural botanicals.” Before the pizza parlor, George and I ran a small market in a coastal town twenty minutes away. Not wanting to navigate the laborious liquor license process, the shop initially—and exclusively—stocked NA beverages.

From a prickly pear “paloma” to de-alcoholized pét-nat, our selection was wide-spanning. These companies were serious business circa 2022 and had the pedigrees to prove it—one of our biggest sellers was a wine alternative developed by the Noma Fermentation Lab in Copenhagen.

Which is why I was dumbfounded (and embarrassed!) when my taste buds preferred the flavors hawked by the “California Gurls” songstress. So, have I cracked a can of Purple Lune and savored its black cherry notes during a post-shift session? Maybe! Did I get progressively quieter while explaining Orlando Bloom’s soon-to-be-ex-wife’s role in my suddenly more productive Saturday nights? Of course. And did I, in that moment, decide I needed to make my own tasty treat just to never have this conversation again? Mmhmmm.

Enter the shrub: a tangy, old-school drinking vinegar, once used in colonial America to preserve fruit, now back on menus as a grown-up alternative to booze. I love shrubs for their tart, acidic bite—they bring a sophisticated edge to a sober happy hour. Plus, they’re incredibly easy to make.

You basically take any fruit (or veggie—a celery shrub is next up for me), dump some sugar on it, wait a few days, add vinegar, wait a few more days, and then boom: adult juice time. *I should note that the recipe at the bottom has slightly more detail.*

My current go-to is a Blueberry Lavender shrub—because it’s wild blueberry season here in Maine and, well, I’m lazy. Those little sapphire-colored superfoods grow everywhere around here, and while I could do the pick-your-own thing, we’ve got a perfectly wonderful farm right here in our town of Warren that packs them up all nice for ya.

As for the lavender? I have a local supplier: my mother. While my parents have always kept humble gardens, they were mostly vegetable-based, with green beans and carrots being pulled from the dirt and served at dinner.

But a few years ago, they bought two lavender plants, which grew to eight, then exponentially expanded to sixteen. They seem to have stopped there—for now—but the rest of our family is keeping an eye on them.

Armed with my pint of bluebs and a handful of lavender, it was time to do a little kitchen science. The berries were smothered with a cup of sugar (also taken from my parents’ house, if we’re being honest), while the lavender got an apple cider vinegar bath. After both mixtures literally chilled in the fridge for a few days, their liquids—varying in viscosity and purple hue—were combined.

The result is a drink rich with jammy sweetness, soft herbal notes, and a zippy finish. I like to top mine with sparkling water, grab a slice of pizza (it pairs especially well with a Prosciutto and Arugula pie), and settle in for a good old-fashioned post-shift hang. And the best part? The worst thing I’ll feel in the morning is the apple cider vinegar slowly but surely stripping away my teeth veneer :)

The Recipe 🫐

Blueberry Lavender Shrub

Makes about 5–6 drinks if you’re using 2 oz. per serving.

Ingredients

• 1 pint blueberries

• 1 cup sugar

• 8–10 sprigs fresh lavender

• 1 cup apple cider vinegar

• Zest of 1 lemon (just the yellow part—no bitter pith)

Preparation

Start the berries
In a medium bowl, combine the blueberries and sugar. Give them a gentle smash to get the juices flowing, then stir it all together. Cover and stick it in the fridge for up to two days.

Steep the lavender
Meanwhile, place the lavender and lemon zest in a nonreactive container (glass is good), pour the vinegar over it, and refrigerate for the same amount of time. It’ll get floral and citrusy in a good way.

Strain the berries
After a couple days, strain the blueberry mixture through a fine mesh sieve into a bowl. Press on the solids to get all the syrup out.

Now, strain the vinegar
Strain the vinegar mixture into the same bowl. Discard the lavender and zest.

Combine and chill
Transfer everything to a clean jar with a lid. Give it a good shake to mix (especially if there’s still a little sugar hanging around), and refrigerate for about a week to let the flavors settle in.

Today, we’re exploring how my sister’s lifelong preoccupation with the Jaws movie franchise inspired a Littleneck Clam Pizza special at St. George Pizza.

And as always, feel free to skip on down to the recipe!

As a young child, my sister Julie’s favorite movie was Jaws.

Watching her take in the film was always a sight to behold, her blond cherub curls lit by the glow of Spielberg’s shark epic coming off the screen.

Why our parents deemed a movie teeming with gruesome dismemberments acceptable afternoon entertainment for a kindergartener is still a mystery to us all. Regardless, she was hooked (fishing pun not not intended).

As a result, our family was subjected to the wider Jaws cinematic universe, including 1987’s Jaws: The Revenge— in which a great white shark (canonically, a descendant of the original) stalks the surviving Brody family members from Amity Island to Jamaica. And Michael Caine, the knighted, Oscar-winning actor, is there as a love interest. Sure!

Aside from a brief phase of *not wanting to get bullied* in high school, Julie’s full-throated enthusiasm for Jaws has never quieted. Her dedication to the franchise was so singular, that it seemed statistically impossible she would find a friend—let alone a partner—who would match her passion. Then she met Cullen.

Yeah, my sister married a fishmonger-slash-stage actor who, every summer, screens her favorite movie on the side of their house here in coastal Maine. And some people don’t believe in soulmates.

Lest you think Cullen’s shark-based generosity is reserved exclusively for Julie, please know that he gave a surprise performance of Robert Shaw’s chilling Jaws monologue (recounting his character Quint’s survival of the USS Indianapolis sinking) during George’s and my wedding. A tradition most celebrations should adopt, if we’re being honest.

These two megalodon maniacs are the reason George and I now live in Maine. Simply put, after a decade of living in Portland, Oregon, I missed my family back on the east coast. The onset of Covid only heightened that homesickness and so, in May 2021, we moved across the country and minutes away from my sister and her husband.

Over the ensuing four-plus years, Julie and Cullen have shown up for us time and time again, both emotionally and physically (moving George’s piano into the house was... a bonding experience and I’ll leave it at that). Now, like any good family members concerned about their relatives going bankrupt via small business dreams, they help out at St. George Pizza.

Cullen takes to it like a fish (shark?) to water and excels at any job he's given—from dishwasher to bartender. But the role he was truly born to play? Trivia Night Host.

Game nights in small-town Maine are more cutthroat than I ever anticipated, but Cullen handles the ever-simmering tension with total aplomb. He poses playfully puzzling questions while tamping down increasingly serious rivalries — like the one between the sixty-something couple and team of local teens.

He’s really made the experience his own over these past few months of hosting. Which is why we were amused—but not shocked—when Cullen proposed a trivia night dedicated to our family’s favorite apex predator. (At this point in the essay, I really feel like you should know who I’m talking about.)

George and I wasted no time in brainstorming a thematically appropriate pizza special. And despite my husband/chef’s initial enthusiasm for a meat-supreme concoction he wanted to call “Chum Pie,” we eventually settled on the much less upsettingly named Littleneck Clam Pizza.

Our pizza is an homage to the iconic clam pie from the now-closed Franny’s in Brooklyn—my go-to neighborhood spot during my early twenties. As a white pizza with a briny cream base and smattering of shellfish, its flavor is entirely dictated by the quality of the titular clams.

Luckily for us—and as previously mentioned—we live in Maine, a region overrun with world-class seafood. So, after a scenic 25-minute drive down the coast to place a 400-count clam order at Simmons Fish Market, we were ready for a night of salty, sea-based questions and flavors.

The morning of the big event, I received the worst possible news: Julie was sick with a summer cold and couldn’t attend Jaws Trivia Night. The cruelty of the universe—striking her down on the very day her entire life had led up to.

Despite my immediate, panicked thoughts of canceling the entire dinner service (or alternatively, hopping my sister up on a double dose of DayQuil) I was talked down by Cullen, who somberly insisted, “This is what she would want.”

So, we persevered. As the credits rolled on an early-bird screening of the movie, our trivia host took the mic and began the quizzing. As an ode to my fallen sister (she’s fine now, btw), the St. George Pizza kitchen staff formed its own trivia team. In between running pizzas and pouring drinks, we furiously scribbled down answers to the shark-themed questions... many of which, to me, seemed a bit more obvious than Cullen’s usual clues.

When the votes were tallied, the results were unsurprising: first place went to a group of trivia night regulars, while last place went to the aptly (and hilariously) named “Team Last Place.” And although we weren’t officially playing, the kitchen crew came in second. Pretty damn good for trying to hear the questions over the hum of the oven hood fan!

It has since dawned on me that our high score was thanks to the copious amounts of Jaws trivia I’ve unknowingly absorbed over the years, courtesy of my sister and brother-in-law’s lifelong obsession. And when you think about it, isn’t that what family should be about? Unconditional support of each other and your weirdo interests —whether that’s a passion for a 1975 shark thriller or a Sicilian pizza parlor in small-town Maine.

Still pissed I missed the “what was the shark’s name?” question, though.

The Recipe 🌊

Littleneck Clam Pizza

Makes one 10-inch square Sicilian-style pizza (feeds 2, generously)

Ingredients:

• 1 Tbsp olive oil, plus more for drizzling

• A small chunk of Spanish onion (like 1/8 of one), chopped

• 2-3 garlic cloves, smashed and peeled

• 1 bay leaf

• Pinch of crushed red pepper flakes

• 1/3 cup dry white wine (the drinkable kind, not the “cooking” kind)

• About 1.5–2 lbs littleneck clams (1 to 1.5 dozen), scrubbed well

• 1/3 cup heavy cream

• Pizza dough (enough for one 10" square pan—roughly 300–350g)

• Flour, for dusting

• Chopped parsley (fresh is highly recommended here!)

Instructions:

1. Preheat:
If you’ve got a pizza stone or steel, throw it in the oven and crank the temp to 500–550°F. Let it heat for a solid 45 minutes. If you're using a Sicilian-style pan, just oil it up and set it aside.

2. Clam time:
In a medium pot, heat the olive oil over medium. Add the chopped onion and sauté until soft and kinda translucent (5-ish minutes). Toss in the garlic, bay leaf, and a pinch of red pepper flakes. Let it all hang out for another 5–6 minutes until fragrant. Pour in the wine and bring it to a simmer.

Add your clams, cover the pot, and steam until they start popping open (about 8–10 minutes). Pull them out with tongs as they open and set them in a bowl. Toss any that stay stubbornly shut. Once they’ve cooled off, pluck out the meat and ditch the shells.

3. Make that briny glaze:
Take the liquid left in the pot and simmer it down until it’s thick and syrupy (10–15 minutes). Stir in the cream and keep simmering until it reduces by about a quarter (another 15–20 minutes). Strain it so it’s smooth and fancy. Set it aside and try not to drink it. I know that sounds gross but it’s so good, you are gonna be tempted.

4. Assemble the pie:
Stretch or press your dough into your prepared 10" square pan (light flour if needed so it doesn’t stick). Spread about 2–3 tablespoons of your clam glaze over the dough. Top with 8–10 clams, a little crushed red pepper- a little really does go a long way here, and a drizzle of olive oil.

5. Bake it:
Slide the pizza into the oven and bake for 10–12 minutes, or until the crust is golden and the top is bubbling. If you want it extra crispy, I respect that, just hit it with the broiler for 30–60 seconds max.

6. Garnish + serve:
Pull it out, drizzle with more olive oil, and sprinkle with a nice heaping of fresh chopped parsley. Slice, serve, and enjoy while watching a shark movie of your choosing but I think you know which one my family recommends.

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In a rather classic act of Mainer self-sufficiency, the young couple I’d purchased the Facebook Marketplace tables from refused any unloading assistance from my husband George or me. We stood uselessly as they hopped into the bed of their pickup truck, slid the tables down onto the seeping lawn, accepted our cash payment with a nod and then drove away—their aging German Shepherd staring blankly at us through the back window.

Our pizza parlor is housed in a 200-year-old building next to a river in a small Maine town. Once an active mill community, there was a time when the property was just one of many businesses crowding Main Street. But we all know how that story goes: the mill closed, people moved away, stores shuttered, and ultimately—buildings were razed.

Which is why, next to St. George Pizza, on the former site of a general store, there now sits a vacant riverside lot. Left to its own devices for decades, the land became overrun with invasive plants and pervading parasites (welcome to tick country). But we had a plan—a great deal of weed-whacking and then… picnic tables.

It kept raining for a week straight after the arrival of the tables. Plein-air dining dreams were abandoned for more pragmatic, urgent needs like basement flooding prevention. When the sun did eventually show itself again, even if only for a few minutes from behind ever-present clouds, those pressured-treated pine boards glimmered in the light.

As I began to trust Spring’s commitment to sticking around, it felt time for a seasonal reshuffling of the menu. Suddenly, the Old Fashioned that had warmed many a frigid winter night felt oppressively heavy. I looked out at the lawn and envisioned families, friends, and maybe even foes alike sharing pizza in the blazing summer sun. Goddamnit, those tables needed some margaritas on them.

Once the vision of a salt-rimmed glass sweating at the picnic tables popped into my head, it was impossible to ignore. But I was plagued by the potential combo of lime juice and marinara sauce sloshing around in stomachs. It reminded me of a former coworker who used to get two Sbarro pepperoni slices and a venti black coffee everyday for lunch. I still worry about his stomach lining from time to time.

There had to be a way to soften the hard citrus edge while retaining the bite of the tequila. I deliberated. Consulted with bartender friends. Had some drinks. And through this rigorous scientific process, a solution revealed itself - more booze. In the form of Limoncello, a lemon liqueur that is classically Italian.

Let’s fast forward past me peeling dozens of lemons, infusing vodka with their rinds and mixing with simple syrup after a ten day resting period to arrive at the moment of truth. After a rigorous shake, the first St. George Pizza’s limoncello margarita was poured into a glass and tasted by our chef (aka George, my husband).

“oooooooooh. Yeah!”

Yet, despite George’s verbal approval and physical chugging of the margarita, I still worried it would seem out of place on the Sicilian style menu.

“what if we called it ‘The Italian Margarita’?” George suggested, salt residing in his mustache.

What IF we called it that. Simple, straightforward and undeniably Italian…because it said “Italian”. I did a quick perusal of the internet to see if any other fine dining establishments had thought of such a carefully named concoction.

I could never have dreamed we’d be amongst the greatest of the greats:

The Recipe 🍋

Limoncello

Ingredients:

• 15 lemons, preferably organic (4½ to 5 pounds)

• 1 liter vodka (we use Chopin but do your thing)

• 1½ cups granulated sugar

• 1 cup water

Instructions:

1. Peel the lemons:
   Wash and dry the lemons. Use a vegetable peeler to remove the peels, avoiding the bitter white pith. Make sure to squeeze the leftover lemons and make yourself a nice lil handy supply of juice for other purposes.

2. Infuse the vodka:
   Place the lemon peels in a large jar or container with an airtight lid. Add the vodka, seal the jar, and store at room temperature away from sunlight for at least 4 days, or up to 1 month. Shake gently once a day if you like.

3. Strain:
   After infusion, strain the vodka into a bowl and discard the lemon peels. Pour the infused vodka back into the jar.

4. Make simple syrup:
   In a saucepan, combine 1½ cups sugar with 1 cup water. Bring to a simmer, stirring occasionally until the sugar fully dissolves. Cool completely.

5. Finish the limoncello:
   Stir the cooled syrup into the infused vodka. Refrigerate for at least 3 hours before using, or chill in the freezer for a stronger, colder result. Store in the fridge or freezer for up to 1 year.

Margarita Time!

Ingredients (for 1 serving/drink):

• 1 oz Reposado Tequila

• 1 oz Blanco Tequila

• 1 oz homemade limoncello (from above)

• 0.75 oz fresh lime juice

• Smoked salt, for rim

• Lemon wheel, for garnish

Instructions:

1. Rim the glass:
   Rub a lime wedge around the rim of a rocks glass or coupe. Dip in smoked salt. Set aside.

2. Shake:
   In a cocktail shaker, combine:

   • 1 oz Reposado

   • 1 oz Blanco

   • 1 oz homemade limoncello

   • 0.75 oz fresh lime juice
     Add ice and shake vigorously for 10–15 seconds.

3. Serve:
   Fill the prepared glass with fresh ice. Strain the margarita into the glass.

4. Garnish:
   Add that Lemon wheel

5. Get yourself to a picnic table!

   Preferably one found on FB marketplace

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Our menu is perhaps, painfully simple. Two starters, three pizzas, a desert and a side of bone sauce. The main deviation occurs with a weekly special that joins the stalwart cheese and pepperoni. Given that our standbys have a red sauce base, it feels only right to dabble and experiment with white pies. But with each Spring Cream Kale or Pistachio Pesto that comes out of the oven, George’s concern over the dwindling approval of our septuagenarian neighbor grows.

Which is why, on a Sunday that we had reserved for “no work!”, we were debating what this week’s red sauce concoction could be. The special is typically dictated by one of two things: seasonality (see last week’s Lemon-y Asparagus above) or what we’re craving. The latter reason, with no real reasoning behind it at all, is what led us to the idea of an “Sausage Hoagie” pizza.

The recipe development (caramelize peppers and onions, but only slightly- not too soggy) volleyed as we partially fulfilled our Day Off promise and headed south to to Sasanoa Brewing. George is a self described “Dad beer” drinker aka lager advocate, who typically turns his nose up at heavier, spicier farmhouse ales. That was until he tasted the lime-basil saison brewed at Tarbox Farms, a historic property which, with almost folksy indifference sits upon a mighty tidal river that flows out to the Atlantic.

As we approached, trepidatious down the poked dirt road, rain clouds hulked in our rearview. Fat but sporatic drops splattered the windshield as we passed the family cemetery, comprised of a proportionate mix of gravestones from the past two centuries. Rounding the last bend in the road, which kissed the corner of an 18th c. Cape Cod style cottage, I could see beer drinkers clustered around picnic tables, in either denial or ignorance of the storm cloud barreling towards us all.

Two yellow bar stools located under the safety of the tin roof miraculously sat unoccupied as we scurried over, eyes on the darkened horizon. The storm began while we took our first sips of saison. A young boy, unfazed by the downpour, continued to drive his toy trucks through the garden’s pea gravel. The brewery owner discussed how he tossed his children’s half eaten peaches into a pot over the winter and was planning to sow the one pit that sprouted. A pitbull sniffed the damp air and cozied up to his owner, both seated on the bench of a worn picnic table.

A discussion of another round (“this is technically research for the restaurant”) led to a more considered perusal of the menu. And as my eyes drifted down past the saison offerings, I was stopped by the three words that had been haunting me all Sunday: Sweet. Italian. Sausage.

The odds of the very ingredient we’d been prattling about being one of two meat offerings at this farm (the other being breakfast sausage) were low, but not wildly unlikely given that we were…at a farm. Regardless and perhaps a smidge influenced by the beer buzz, we were delighted at the casually kismet moment. After the rain clouds moved out, we left the farm with a hefty bag of sausage and pizza plans that were sure to make our neighbor Larry happy.

And wouldn’t you know it, the son of a bitch didn’t show up for dinner that week.

THE RECIPE 🍕

“Sausage Hoagie” Pizza

Makes one 10-inch square Sicilian-style pizza (feeds 2, generously)

1 300-350g ball of pizza dough

½ cup tomato sauce

¾ cup shredded low moisture mozzarella

2 red and yellow bell peppers

6 cloves of garlic

1 yellow onion

2 tbsp tomato paste

1 tbsp Calabrian chili

½ link (around 60 g) sweet Italian sausage

a generous sprinkling of hoagie breadcrumbs (we make a hoagie out of our pizza dough and then blend it up but something like panko is a decent sub)

kosher salt and black pepper to taste

Wash and cut bell peppers in half lengthwise. Pull out stems and ribs, then tap out seeds. Slice lengthwise into ¼" strips. Peel onions and slice each half into 3 lengthwise wedges. Peel and thinly slice garlic.

Heat 2 Tbsp. oil in a large pan over medium heat. Add onions and garlic and cook, stirring often, just until onions are beginning to soften, 5–8 minutes.

Add bell peppers, tomato paste and calabrian and another 1 Tbsp. oil to pot; season generously with salt and pepper. Stir until peppers and onions are evenly coated. Cook until there is the slightest bit of crisp remaining (they will get fully tender during the pizza cooking process).

Preheat your oven and pizza stone (if you got one, which we recommend) to 450°F (232°C). Prep and roll your dough out into your greased pan of choice - again, at St. George Pizza, we are using 10” X 10” pans. Spread the tomato sauce over the dough, leaving a slight edge for the crust. Add mozzarella. Pinch off 1” balls of sausage and place evenly across the dough. Top with about a cup of the pepper and onion mixture. Place in the oven and let cook for around 10 minutes- you’ll know it’s done when the cheese has reach a rich yellow/orange color and the crust is a deep brown. Remove, apply the dusting of hoagie crumbs and enjoy!

On the almost-obnoxiously-scenic midcoast of Maine, it’s the norm for restaurants to close up shop over the winter. It’s an area dependent upon seasonal tourism, where local business owners bank on making their yearly profits during those brief but beautiful summer days.

That’s why it made little to no sense when, on the bitterly cold evening of January 11th, my husband and I went against all regional wisdom and opened up a pizza shop in our small town of Warren, Maine.

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This was an unlikely move for non-industry professionals (an advertising art director and programmer, respectively) who are new to the area according to Mainer logic (relocated from PDX a mere *four* years ago). But when we heard that the one commercial spot (first floor of a c.1820 building) in the historic “downtown” of our tiny town (pop. 4,865) was looking for new tenants, we knew we could make something that the entire community would benefit from (pizza).

And we’re figuring it out! In the months since that first night, we have served thousands of pies, crammed more antique decor into and onto every possible surface and hosted some shockingly competitive Bingo and Trivia nights.

This newsletter will be the space where I (Megs) recount the happenings involved with running a pizza joint. Think small business trials and tribulations, acclimating to sorta-rural living, recipes for the weekly special pizza, and of course, local “drama”.

And I probably should mention that if you decide to become a paid subscriber, you have a real hard choice in front of you. Do you want a St. George Pizza baseball cap in mustard or chino blue? Tough call, but you gotta make it!

Thanks so much for reading and we’ll see you next week!